Trust No One
by batteredkeys
Summary: No one gets the better of Clove Coltello. I don't fail at all. I'm not an overachiever but I work hard for the the things I want. That's why I'm going to win the 74th Hunger Games.
1. Chapter 1

1

The knife lands deep in the red bull's eye with a resounding _thwack_, which I can hear even from my sixty-five feet away. I straighten, dropping my outstretched arm, and a small grin spreads on my face. That's got to be a record.

"Did you see that?" I ask my trainer eagerly, turning around.

Zephyr squints in the late afternoon sun before giving a curt nod. "Acceptable," he comments.

That's Zephyr for you. He never gives you a straight compliment. Never lets his guard down. Never softens for you. Always remains aloof. Silent, almost. It's a dead useful strategy for a survivor. If you want to stay alive you've got to stick to yourself. Don't get attached because those people will die. And I know I'm going to need to use it if I'm going to with the Hunger Games.

I sigh and begin to pull out another knife from my weapons belt, but Zephyr holds up his hand, checking his watch. "That's enough for today. It's almost two. You'd better get home."

I nod. Today is our last day of ever training. I only realize that now. I'm not going to see Zephyr for a while. Today is the reaping day. Today one girl's name in the entire population of District 2 is going to be read out before everyone. It may be mine, though I have very few entries. It doesn't matter. I'm going to volunteer anyway. I've been training for seven years for this. I don't easily pass this up. Anyway, I'd much rather volunteer than get reaped. It's a bold sign, a sign of toughness. It says that you're going in because you want to, not because it's the rules. And I want to go in.

I unbuckle my weapons belt, from which hangs an array knives of various sizes, from small thin silver ones, to wide blades with rough wooden handles.

Knives are my specialty. I've tried many weapons, including spears, javelins, slingshots, tomahawks, and bows and arrows but I found my true talent in knives. They're small, easy to hide, and are deadly accurate. And that plus my extreme precision is almost a guaranteed death from a distance. I can even fight in hand to hand combat with them. Zephyr insisted I know this. Sure, swords are better for this, they're longer and easier to aim with, but I find them bulky and annoying. With knives you can flit this way and that. You can use two if you want (and boy can I use two). Two means twice the aim. Twice the accuracy. Twice the deadliness. Twice the guarantee of death. Twice the blood.

Blood isn't a problem for me. Many think it is for a pale girl of fourteen, but I've been raised watching past Games on tapes. I know it can't be avoided. So you just have to accept it. The goriness doesn't matter to me. As long as I've killed the person, instead of them killing me. And very rarely does that person get to me. No one gets the better of Clove Coltello. I don't fail at all. I'm not an overachiever but I work hard for the things I want. That's why I'm going to win the 74th Hunger Games.

Maybe it's in my blood. The house of Coltello has produced many children who grew to be victors in previous generations. My own Aunt Eureka had been in the Games herself. In fact, that's why I'm doing this. Why I'm training to be in the Games. She inspired me. She had only been thirteen—and she had been reaped. No one had volunteered for her, an amazing feat in District 2. No one needed to. They'd seen her with a javelin. She was unstoppable. And she would've won too. She was one of the last standing. It had been her and three boys. She'd killed off one, but before she could get to the second, the third one had caught her from behind. He'd mauled her with a spiked club. I had been seven when I first watched the scene on tape. The blood was nothing. The fact that Aunt Eureka had gone down with a fight was good enough for me. As her coal black hair, so much like mine, strewed across the dusty ground, slick with blood, I vowed I would become a Career and win a Games in her honor.

So I set to work training. My parents found Zephyr, an acclaimed Career trainer in District 2. I wasn't the only child doing this. It's common for kids in 1, 2, and 4. It's almost an honor. Many kids eventually dropped out, however. The training is intense and difficult. We run miles of laps, do an infinite number of push ups and sit ups just as exercise. Then Zephyr gets to work with you. He teaches you survival skills, how to climb trees, scale walls, start fires, and most importantly, how to fight with any type of weapon. Then he duels you. And it's not easy. Each day is a different weapon. But I became very versatile that way.

"Clove," says Zephyr, his voice breaking through my thoughts. He waves a tanned hand in front of my face. I look at him. "Good luck out there today."

I grin, flashing white teeth that match my skin. "You know I won't need it."

"I know." He smiles back. He looks almost like family. He's middle aged, although very built, and he has the same dark hair and eyes as most Coltellos do. The only difference is his much tanned skin, brown from years of training under the sun.

I hang up my weapons belt in the shed in his backyard, knowing I probably won't see it for a while. I sigh a little, feeling the soft supple leather of the belt, before I'm off, running across the yard, waving goodbye to Zephyr and slipping through his side gate. I'll be seeing him soon at the town square.

The reaping begins at three o' clock. I have to get home and get ready.

It's a short jog from Zephyr's home to mine. Although District 2's huge, everything in my region seems to be within walking distance. I pass the square on my way home. It's mostly empty. Still an hour before the reaping. However it's spick and span, shining in the afternoon sun. The workers of the town hall have been cleaning for two days. We want to make a good impression. We always do.

I reach my house in minutes. It's a large gray single-family home with a shingled roof and spacious green yard. We live in a high class neighborhood. Many of the families here are large, prosperous, and wealthy. The parents often are Peacekeepers, work in the Justice Building, or are high up in the mining and weapons industry, our district's main export.

The front hall inside my home is cool and empty. "I'm home!" I call, my voice echoing.

"Your clothes are laid out in your room," responds my mother, her voice drifting from the kitchen.

I scale the smooth wooden stairs and rush into the bathroom, feeling sweaty and disgusting from my training. I turn on the shower. Although it's only early May and still breezy, I take a freezing shower to alert myself. Plus, Zephyr recommends it. I get out, wrapping myself in a warm fluffy towel, and catch sight of myself in the mirror.

I am not beautiful. I know that. I never thought I was. But I've been complimented before. It's only my face that isn't particularly stunning. Maybe the dark freckles I have do something to it. But my long black hair has received its fair share of compliments. I'm rather average height for my age, 5 foot, five inches. My face is round with a narrow jaw, and I have dark eyes like my family. My arms and legs are very long. Perfect for throwing knives and running swiftly. I'm a born survivor.

I slip into my bedroom and find on my bed my mother has laid out one of my dresses. I have more than I can count, and I love them all, but there's a certain style to what you wear to reapings. Plain, but clean. Usually blues and whites. Whites always seem to flatter my hair. The one my mother has set out is a flowy springtime dress, of eyelet lace and a sweetheart neckline. Its straps are thin, so she has laid aside a pale blue cashmere sweater to don over it.

I've always loved nice clothes, but I can hardly think about my becoming outfit as I slip into the dress and pull on a nice pair of shoes. I dry my hair, and leave it down. It'll make people remember me more easily on the TV. The girl who volunteered. The young girl with the coal-black hair. With the hard face and dark eyes. They won't forget me.

I take a deep breath and head back out into the hallway. My little brother meets me there. He's only eleven, so he isn't entered in the reaping. But next year . . . .

I love Jaynn to death. He's getting older, but nothing will mask his sweet, innocent face, framed by little glasses that he's worn for two years. He's always been short. No one knows why, since all the Coltellos are tall and stately. He wears a simple crisp blue shirt and slacks, his dark hair scruffy in the back.

"Ready?" I ask, ruffling his hair.

He gives me a weird look. Boys. When they grow older, they don't want to be seen being kissed by their mothers or hugged by their sisters. Oh well. It was bound to happen sometime.

We arrive at the square exactly twenty minutes before the reaping. Because of such a big population, it's hard to get good seats for the adults. Of course, the children are just placed in their age groups standing and facing the stage. Nothing fancy.

The square is already quite crowded. A large stage has been erected in front of the Justice Building, a big squarish structure made of huge gray slabs of stone. It's the only ugly thing in the square. Standing on the stage is a microphone, a long row of spindly silver chairs, and standing on either side two huge glass balls with slips of paper inside. A big golden plaque on the left one reads girls and the other one reads boys. There are three slips of paper with Clove Coltello written on them in the girls' bowl. The odds of my getting picked are pretty slim, compared to people who are older or who've entered extra times for the fun of it. Or maybe they're poorer and had to. But hardly anyone's poor in District 2. We're so close to the Capitol.

A Peacekeeper escort dressed in an outlandish white uniform ushers me to the roped-off fourteen-year-old section. It's mixed with girls and boys. Most I recognize from school. Some I'm pretty close to (we exchange curt nods). Others I have never seen before. Probably from different farther regions. My region happens to be the one right next to the town square.

I see my parents and Jaynn finding seats off to the left on the other side of the square. They're sitting on the edge of their seats. They know this is my year. They know I want to do it now. I don't want to volunteer when I'm old, at seventeen or eighteen. That's too clichéd. I want to do it when I'm young, but not too young. Fourteen is just the right age. And people know me. They know how I am with knives. There won't be other volunteers.

For the next several minutes more and more families are ushered in. More fourteen year olds join my group. In front of us, two groups down, are the sixteens. They already tower over most of us, looking brooding and strong. Even though all of them aren't Careers, you can tell by their stature, how they're well fed, stocky in build, and not overweight. They could win a Games if they tried hard.

Soon, the ceremonies begin. The mayor of 2, Ursula Quintonby clicks onto the stage in her teetering five-inch heels. Being this close to the Capitol, many citizens of our district often follow the fashion trends. The mayor is no exception. She wears a well-tailored suit of a steely metallic gray that seems to shimmer as she moves. Her blonde hair is curled tightly in ringlets, piled on top of her head in a twist, adorned with red feathers, real or artificial, I can't tell. Her wrists jangle from the gold bangles round them.

She smiles warmly to the crowd, welcoming them to the reaping of the 74th annual Hunger Games. Then she introduces the previous victors of the Hunger Games. There's a whole list of them. Most are dead, having won their Games decades ago. However, a good handful are present. She reads off the names and they walk across the stage amidst the applause and take the seats set aside for them. I watch them carefully. Two of them will be my mentors for the Games. One man, one woman.

Now the mayor is launching into a boring tale of the history of the country Panem, the Dark Days, how the Games work, blah, blah blah.

I've heard it too many times in my life to care. I practically have it memorized. Instead, I scan the crowd as her voice drifts away. I take in the boys. Mostly because any one of them could be the one going to the Capitol with me. I don't take notice of the girls because, obviously, I'm going to be the one this year.

My eyes happen to pass over Mariana Xavier, a girl the same age as mine. Her long brown hair is pulled into a rigid stiff bun at the top of her head, practically pulling the skin on her face upward. Her eyes are slanted and she wears a permanent scowl on her face. She's much taller than me, but even taller today in the heels that seem to glow a hue of blue. Probably straight from the Capitol. Made for reaping occasions. Must have cost a fortune—a District _2 _fortune.

She must have sensed my eyes on her, because she turns her head slightly and catches my gaze, holding it. Mariana and I have hated each other from the first day of school. She's always been in my classes. We're both mediocre students, but she has her talents, just like I do. She's not a Career—she didn't choose that path. I don't know why we both hate each other, but something led to something, and now it's tradition from me to spit an insult at her each time I pass her. Today will be no exception.

"Twit," I mouth at her.

She merely smirks. Maybe the reaping has her in high spirits. I know it's probably terrible for me to think, but I secretly wish each year she'll get picked—and that nobody volunteers. She's not a fighter at all. Her hands are soft and have no calluses in any way. I know that from the lame slaps she gives me occasionally. She wouldn't last a minute in the arena. It would be lovely to see someone knife her to death. Of course, she's just a child. But so is everyone else who gets pummeled in there.

I break her gaze and keep scanning for boys. I stay mostly in the sixteen-to-eighteen regions, because that's where most Careers are from. They'll most likely volunteer. Who will be my partner and competitor . . . .?

My eyes stop in the sixteen section. Someone is looking at me. A tall, muscular, broad boy with light blonde hair. He has an angular face and square jaw. His eyes, even from this distance, I can see are blue, though they have a dark determined stare to them. He's wearing plain reaping clothes, but I can still see he's strong, powerful, and could easily just snap a kid into pieces.

I hold his gaze, staring back just as darkly, with a smirk on my face. I know this boy. I've seen him at the training centers around my region. He doesn't live far from Zephyr. Plus he goes to my school, though he's several grades up. His name is Cato. I can't recall his last name . . . .Tylum? Telum! That's it. Cato Telum. He's been a Career for ages. Probably waiting for a good year to volunteer. _He's amazing with a spear_, I think, almost admiringly.

Cato winks at me from across the crowded square and then turns to watch the mayor again. I blink. Did he just wink at me? _Did _he? I give a soft snort. The nerve of him. I hope he doesn't volunteer. Though he probably will. It'll be his last year next year. He'll want to get in a Games sometime soon.

I lift my head high, keeping a smooth haughty look on my face, and turn to listen to the last of Mayor Quintonby's speech.

She finishes. Applause. I clap along robotically. Let's get a move on.

The mayor steps aside as the all-time favorite District 2 escort bounds up the side steps onto the stage: Wilcorn Buffet. A squat portly man who sports a wild bowler cap of a vivid green. He wears a bright yellow suit with a lapel two inches wide. His patent leather shoes are so shiny my eyes hurt from looking at them. They're a neon purple. That's Capitol fashion for you. He's been here every year. His round face, funny demeanor, and way of making jokes out of everything always produces much fun for the audience.

"Well, well, well," he says in the high-pitched Capitol accent. He bounces on the balls of his feet like a young schoolboy, ready to read out who has just won a prize. Of course, to us, it is a prize. But I've seen other Districts on television. They think the Games are terrible. A brutal way to manipulate the people, forcing their children to fight to the death. They hate it; their reapings are boring, solemn gray events where the parents of the chosen children often burst into tears, clinging to them as they are pulled away. Such fragile brats. They can't take anything.

Here in 2, people love the reapings. They plan everything out excitedly. Everyone attends (not because it's the law) but they love seeing who gets picked. Even we children think it's an excitement.

"Another wonderful year of Hunger Games!" squeals Wilcorn. "Let's get a move on, then!"

_Yes, please_, I think impatiently. I stare at the bowl of girls' names intently.

"Ladies first, of course," says Wilcorn, reaching a stubby hand into the girls' bowl. I notice his nails are painted a glittering pink. He leafs around for a second, while the crowd holds its breath.

Then he pulls out a slip of paper. He walks back over to the podium, while I pray it's not my name so I can volunteer. He unfolds it, and reads in a clear voice—

"Maya Xavier."

A hushed silence.

Then thundering applause.

I am stunned.

Maya Xavier is Mariana Xavier's younger sister. She's thirteen. Just like Aunt Eureka was when she was picked. I catch a glimpse of Mariana through the crowd. She's as shocked as I am. Her face is deathly pale. Her hands are trembling. I realize she might faint.

Maya Xavier stumbles up onto the stage, dressed in a little yellow sundress, her hair braided down her back. She looks a bit nervous, maybe frightened. But she knows it's an honor.

I can barely hear the crowd, or Wilcorn Buffet introducing her, his hands on her shoulders. All I see is Mariana, swaying unsteadily. This would kill her. She knows Maya can't survive the Hunger Games. She knows she can't herself.

Now Wilcorn is asking for volunteers. I glance from Wilcorn to Mariana blindly. Volunteering would be doing her a favor. But that's something I never wanted to do to Mariana Xavier. The girl who stole my clothes in gym when I was twelve. The girl who used to tug my braids back in the first grade.

But maybe this will be some of a in-the-face slap to her anyway. I am volunteering for her little sister. She'll never be able to repay me. And if I die, she'll have to live with that. But I'm not going to die. I'll come back and be a local celebrity. I'll have a fancy house. And she won't. Maybe it'll all work out.

I push myself out of the group of fourteens, and walk up calmly and confidently to the stage, head held high, ignoring Cato Telum's gaze that I can feel on me as I pass the sixteens.

"I volunteer!" I say in a strong voice. "I volunteer for her."

"Excellent!" cries Wilcorn Buffet, grabbing my arm and pulling me up to the stage, his long fingernails digging into my skin. He drags me to the podium as a Peacekeeper escorts Maya off. She's trembling and she's about to burst into tears. I don't know why though. She must not understand the full concept of Careers. Maybe it's practically an unknown thing to her and her family.

"Now, tell me your name," says Wilcorn eagerly.

"Clove." I say into the microphone. I hear my voice echo across the square. I see my face on the screens that hang from either side. I look calm, almost arrogant and cold. I like it. "Clove Coltello. I'm fourteen."

"Fourteen? You don't say. You're only a year older than that little Maya!" says Wilcorn, gesturing animatedly as he speaks. "How did you know her? You can't possibly be related."

I glance at him, then face the crowd. "I don't know her. I know her sister," I say loudly. I look at Mariana for a split second, then find my parents and Jaynn. My mother has tears of happiness streaming down her face. Jaynn looks a bit stricken, but he's trying to look glad for me. My father merely looks proud. Proud that his young daughter volunteered. And then I see Zephyr. He's proud too. He's satisfied with me. He gives me a thumbs up.

"Well, then, there you have it!" announces Wilcorn into the microphone. "Your District 2 female tribute: Clove Coltello!" he grasps my hand and waves it wildly in the air. His palms are slippery with sweat.

"Boys next!" Wilcorn skitters across the stage to the boys' glass ball, while I station myself by the chairs of victors, next to the oldest one, an elderly white haired main: Leroy Tillihue. He must be ninety.

Wilcorn's now got a slip of paper and is headed back to the microphone. He unfolds it and reads the name. I hold my breath.

Prufan Zain.

I have never heard of him before. He's apparently fifteen. He's skinny, a little sickly, and wears glasses almost too big for him.

He's barely halfway to the stage before a familiar blonde person dashes up to Wilcorn, shouting, "I volunteer!" keenly, a maniacal grin on his face. Cato Telum.

I groan inwardly.

"I volunteer as tribute!" says Cato eagerly.

But Wilcorn allows Prufan up onto the stage for a brief moment of applause before he's ushered away and Cato takes his place, towering over both me and Wilcorn.

"What's your name, son?" asks Wilcorn, quite pleased at the spectacle. Two volunteers this year, both very eager (though I didn't look it).

"I'm Cato Telum, I'm sixteen."

"Wonderful, wonderful," gushes Wilcorn. "There you have it, everyone Your District 2 male tribute! Cato Telum!"

The crowd bursts into wild applause, many girls screaming hysterically, giggling over Cato from down below. I roll my eyes.

Wilcorn pulls me over to his other side. He grips me and Cato's hands. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present your District 2 tributes, Cato Telum and Clove Coltello!"

The applause is now deafening. My parents and Zephyr have joined in enthusiastically. Maya Xavier gazes at me white-faced from the other side of the square, clinging to her mother's dress. Mariana Xavier, down in the fourteens section, has a face of stone. She's still pale and shaking, but she gazes at me unblinkingly. She knows what I've done. I smirk a little at her. This will be fun..

"The 74th Hunger Games have begun," I mutter to myself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello! For some reason my author note for the first chapter didn't show up. I'm still new to publishing things on here. This is my first fanfiction and I thought I'd try a Hunger Games one. Clove is one of my favorite characters (this is not necessarily a Clove/Cato romance fanfic, FYI). I won't be posting many long author notes, because those tend to be annoying to me. Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Please do tell me if you think I'm dragging the story out slowly.**

**The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins.**

2

The view from outside the train zips past me in a blur of gray and brown, mostly from one the mountains that surround District 2. I am on my way to the Capitol. I am in their train. I am heading to my first Hunger Games.

Somehow, I never pictured myself after the reaping. Only during it, volunteering, and in the arena. And perhaps me accepting my victor's crown. But never the process in between. I know what happens. There's the train that transports you to the Capitol (our trip will only take about two hours, as we're so close; but other districts, such as 11 and 12 have a whole day's worth of travel ahead of them). And then there's the meeting up with stylists. The prepping. The opening ceremonies, when the tributes are put on chariots and paraded around the city circle for the Capitol citizens. We'll be decked out in flamboyant costumes our stylist has come up with. Then there's the training for three days afterwards. And then the interviews, the night before the Games, with the infamous Caesar Flickerman. I remember his powdered wig that's always a different hue each year.

"Clove!" calls a voice. It's Wilcorn Buffet, his voice coming from down the narrow hallway of the train.

"Here!" I respond. I'm at the very back, where I found the biggest window to watch the scenery.

"Ah, there you are," says Wilcorn. He's changed. Already. He's now in a shirt that's made of purple silk and matching striped pants. His hair is green. How he got that done so fast, I don't know. Maybe it's a wig.

"Your compartment is down at the other end," he says, leading me down the swaying hallway. "You'll find some clothes in there. Feel free to change and freshen up. Dinner's in thirty minutes. You'll be meeting everyone formally there." He beams and scurries away.

I find my compartment. It's the one with the door marked "District 2: Female Quarters". How homey.

I walk in slowly, gripping the doorknob since the train is swaying dangerously. Closing the door behind me, I look around. It's quite spacious, bigger than my room back home. Everything seems to be a dark gold color: the bed, curtains, the plush couch to the side, even the accents on the wallpaper, throw pillows, and lamp shades.

There doesn't seem to be enough variety in there, as nice as it is.

I slip out of my shoes, which have started to hurt my feet, and pad around on the soft—you guessed it: gold—carpet, examining every nook and cranny. Previous victors have never told about how fancy the trains are. Perhaps they were too strung up from winning their actual Games.

I find a large bathroom near the back, complete with a shower stall and bathtub. I still feel clean from my shower this afternoon, so I just splash water on my face. Then I strip down and find some comfortable clothes in the dresser: a pair of loose pants in a soft dark red material, and a loose sweater that seems too big for me. It hangs slightly off my shoulder. But everything else in the dresser is not my taste. Hopefully the Capitol quarters will have a better selection of clothes.

Then I find a comfortable seat next to the window. Somehow, I find the zooming scenery comforting and soothing. Suddenly, I miss my family. Mother, Father, Jaynn, even Zephyr. He'd know what to do right now. I feel utterly alone. In areas where killing is not required, I have no experience. I don't even know how to converse with other people easily.

I think of the last time I'd spoken to them, in the Justice Building back in 2. They permit close family members and friends to drop in briefly to say goodbye. My mother whispered for me to be brave. Jaynn hugged me tight—so tightly I thought I was going to choke—but I didn't resist. I hugged him harder back. He'll see me on the screens for the next few weeks. The scenes might be terrible for him. My father told me he was proud of me. He told me to try hard to win.

Then Zephyr came in. He gave me some quick instructions—fighting techniques, what to do the first second in the arena. Then he also hugged me hard, which caught me off guard. Zephyr is not the sentimental type. He never shows a soft side. Apparently being a tribute is enough for him to do so.

Then I had one last visitor. A surprise one. It was Mariana Xavier. Her eyes were red from crying. That I wasn't expecting.

"Clove . . . ." she said. She seemed lost for words. "What you did for my sister . . ."

"Don't mention it," I muttered, looking away. "I was going to volunteer anyway. Besides, if I hadn't, we've got about a hundred other girl Careers who would've seized the chance at publicity. They would've taken her place."

Mariana disregarded this. "But you did it anyway." A pause. "Thank you."

Then she left.

There's a knocking at my door. "Clove, dinner time," says Wilcorn's voice.

I sigh and pick myself up. My foot has fallen asleep from sitting on it for so long. I wince as I place my weight on it and stumble out the door. I hear a chuckle in the hallway. Whirling around, I see Cato emerging from his own room a little down the hall. He, too, has changed, and wears similar pants as mine, with the same soft stretchy material. Instead of a sweater, he wears a plain green shirt that seems to show off his muscles even more. He hasn't even reached the Capitol and he's showing off his strength. Just the way he carries himself is intimidating. I am immediately glad he is at least from my district. Maybe he'll spare me in the arena, since we sort of know each other. But then I remind myself that I'm going to win. He won't have a chance to try and kill me. Besides, we'll be together in the Career's group.

I scowl at Cato and hobble down the hallway slowly, trying to regain feeling in my foot as fast as possible to spare myself the humiliation. Cato walks slowly behind me, almost in a mocking way. Finally we reach the dining cart, where a large table has been laid before us. There are lit candles (whose wavering flames that tilt this way and that with the movement of the train worry me) and glistening china and crystal plates.

Wilcorn Buffet is seated at the head, talking to a man with a dark goatee. The man keeps twirling it as he talks to Wilcorn intently. Sitting on this man's other side is a thin lady with bony cheeks and wispy grayish hair. She sits primly in her seat, sipping a glass of wine.

Wilcorn and the man stop talking as Cato and I enter.

"Ah! Our tributes! Here they are!" exclaims Wilcorn. He jumps up from his chair so fast that I almost think there's a spring beneath him. He fusses over us, ushering us to seats across from the man and woman, handing us linen napkins and pouring us glasses of a deep purple liquid.

"Well," says Wilcorn, settling back down and facing me and Cato. "I imagine you know who these two are." He gestures to the man and woman. "For introductory sakes, this is Brutus Felhorn, winner of the 45th Hunger Games, and Enobaria Tullop, winner of the 62nd Hunger Games. But you obviously knew that."

Brutus and Enobaria give us both curt nods; Enobaria smiles at me, almost slyly, revealing abnormally sharp teeth. I shudder a bit. I know she will be my mentor (the female mentor is always paired with the female tribute) but she's extremely creepy. I remember her Games. Everyone does. She ripped out a tribute's throat with her own teeth—thus the cosmetically altered ones, to remind people of what she's famous for.

"Well, shall we tuck in?" asks Wilcorn brightly. Before us are more dishes than I can count, all steaming hot.

Although I grew up with three square meals a day, my mother is not an extravagant cook. Having my drink in a wine glass is odd enough. The purple liquid seems to be a blueberry-pomegranate juice sweetened with honey. It has an exquisite exotic taste to it. But the dishes are even more spectacular. First is a soup the color of a bright purple. It's thick and topped with white sour cream, and seems to be made from eggplants. I find the thought revolting—vegetables have never been my favorite—but seasoned with salt, it's very tasty. Then there's a salad filled with all sorts of greens, including ones I have never seen before, topped with a sour-bitter dressing. Then comes a roast pig the size of our cat back home. The train attendant cuts me a slice paper thin and I eat it with the white rice and sauce they serve it with. After the pig there is dessert, which is a chocolate cheesecake, garnished with red raspberries. I'm already stuffed by the time I finish the cake, and cannot accept the after-dinner coffee the attendant offers me.

I sit back, closing my eyes, content with a full stomach.

Around me the others seem to be chatting. About the reaping, about the upcoming Games and what it will be like, about what the other tributes, even about news at the Capitol.

I have no desire to take part in the conversation, but Wilcorn seems intent on bringing me into it.

"Clove, how long have you trained as a Career?" he asks around a big bite of cake.

I don't open my eyes. "Seven years."

"That means . . . you started when you were _seven_?" asks Cato.

I open one eye and look at him. "Yes. When did you start?"

"I was ten," he responds. So six years of it for him. I've had seven, and I'm two years younger.

"Impressive," says Brutus, twirling his goatee thoughtfully. It's the first time I've heard him speak when I was actually listening. He has a deep gravelly voice that seems to accommodate his bearded state. He's in his mid thirties, but he's already got distinctive wrinkles around his eyes. "I myself began at a young age, but I was nine. Starting at seven is young, even for a Career."

"I wasn't a Career," says Enobaria.

"Really?" says Wilcorn, fascinated. "I didn't know that."

"And you beat them all," I say, almost to myself. It is rather impressive. Perhaps winning isn't all in the training at home beforehand.

"So," says Brutus, setting down his fork and crossing his fingers. He seems to be getting down to business. "What are your talents? What weapons do you specialize in?"

"Knives," I say immediately, the exact same time Cato says "Swords".

Brutus raises an eyebrow. "So you already know. Well, that's good. You know what you'll be looking for at the Cornucopia. Can you fight with anything else though? Better to be flexible. You'll be less vulnerable."

"I can fight with anything sharp," I respond. "Swords, javelins, spears, bows and arrows, machetes, you name it. Zephyr told me I'd be versatile that way."

"Zephyr?" repeats Wilcorn, puzzled.

"Her trainer," says Enobaria. Of course she knows him. He's well known amongst victors.

"Well, then, we should discuss battle strategies and how you should act around the other tributes," says Brutus. "But that'll have to wait until we get to the Capitol, after the opening ceremonies. I would imagine we're reaching the city soon. We should watch the recap of the reapings—have an idea who's competing."

We leave the table and head to a sitting room with a large flat television screen on one wall. We settle down comfortably. Wilcorn touches a smooth keypad built into the arm of his armchair and the screen flickers to life.

They've already begun the reaping recap. First is District 1. I take great notice, knowing these will be Careers and we'll be allied with them. The boy is stocky, similar to Cato, though he has brown curly hair. He volunteered. The girl is very old, at least eighteen, with gorgeous blonde hair and a tall stately body. The screens read that their names are Marvel and Glimmer. Good to know.

Then they cut to our reaping. I see Wilcorn calling Maya's name. There's a pause when he asks for volunteers, then I see myself walking forward. My black hair shines in the sunlight. Then we see Cato rush to eagerly take the place of Prufan.

District 3 is not particularly interesting. 4's Careers are good enough. The girl, named Juna, is fifteen, my age. She's a bit small, but she shows obvious signs of training. The boy, Kellar, is skinny, but has long legs, which means he's obviously a good runner. I glance at Cato, and we both exchange a short nod. The Careers this year is a good batch.

The other tributes don't seem to catch my eye. 5 through 10 are all pretty frail-looking. The boy from 10 has a limp. Cato notices this too, with a smirk. I can already tell he's running through his mind the various ways he can kill him. A few others look like they could hold a fight, but they're obviously not Careers. They'll only have the few days in the Training Center to hone some skills. I've got seven years. More than Cato, the giant, sitting next to me.

Two reapings catch my eye. 11's, where a small twelve-year-old girl is picked. No one volunteers. Surely for someone that young. She's only a year younger than Maya Xavier. But no one says a word. The boy from 11 is huge, powerful, and dark-skinned. Competition for Cato. He's already cracking his knuckles next to me.

And the last one, 12's. Yet again, another twelve-year-old is chosen. She has fair skin and blonde hair. She looks terrified as she walks up. Then an older girl, with darker skin and brown hair, screams, "I volunteer!" as she stumbles up to the stage. It's obvious they're sisters; I can see the facial resemblance. There's desperation in the older one's eye as she takes her sister's place. I can tell that she knows she's walking into a deathtrap. But she loved her sister too much.

"Hmm, I'll have to keep an eye on Miss Big Sister," I say, narrowing my eyes at the screen. It says the girl's name is Katniss Everdeen.

"Why?" asks Cato.

"You never know."

Just as we finish watching the recap, the train pulls into the station. I can already hear the roar of the crowd outside, the reporters, who will be brandishing flashing cameras. I brace myself at the door of the train, glancing at Cato. I have to glance _up_; our height difference is so obvious.

He gives a noncommittal shrug, as if to say, "It goes with it". Then the doors are flung open and we're swept onto the crowded station.

Enobaria keeps a steady grip on my arm, which is uncomfortably strong, but reassuring amidst the throng. I loose sight of Cato, who's with Brutus, and Wilcorn. I duck my head, squinting my eyes, trying to avoid the blinding flashes of the cameras. Then I remember I'm supposed to make a good impression. This is being televised. I'm a Career. I have to show that I know what I'm doing.

I straighten up, and start waving at the crowd as enthusiastically as I can. I even blow a few kisses before Enobaria stuffs me into a black luxury Capitol car and slams the door behind us, shutting out the noise.

In minutes, we arrive at the Remake Center, where I will be beautified for the ceremonies tonight. One elevator ride up to the second floor later, I find myself lying on what seems to be an operating table, with workers of the styling team buzzing around me. They're dressed in ostentatious colors of bright orange, pink, and green. The effect is slightly overwhelming, added to the bright florescent glow of the lights of the room.

They strip away my clothes, which startles me for a second. I resist the urge to cover myself, and then think better of it. They're hardly human. How does it matter? The Hunger Games are the Hunger Games.

Then I am thrust into a rigorous five-stage process of beautifying. There's waxing, plucking, scrubbing, lotioning, and combing. They leave me feeling like a squeaky clean bar of soap, with absolutely nothing on my body.

Then they depart, giggling amongst themselves, and I am left to scrounge up a skimpy bathrobe.

Then my stylist enters. She's a woman, thank goodness. She as a curvy body which is accentuated with fitted white flared pants that making a _swoosh _sound when she walks. Over top of it she wears a long flowing tunic in teal, covered in sequins. Her shoes, like Mayor Quintomby's, are dangerously high—perhaps higher. Her face is overly tan, and covered in concealer. Her eyeliner is a bright canary yellow, popping out on her face. Little jewels are glued around her eyebrows. She's a Capitol citizen all the way.

"Hello, Clove, I'm—"

"Livonia Galloway, I know you," I respond. I've seen her on TV for several Games. She's well known for styling the Career districts, though she mostly sticks to 2. I'd forgotten I would be getting her as a stylist. She's known for her overly bright colors and prints, and crazy shoes.

"Well, Clove, I'm honored to be styling District 2 this year," she chirps in her Capitol accent. "Let's have a chat, shall we?"

She sits down gracefully in the chair opposite mine, and pulls out a sketchpad and pen. She snaps her fingers and an attendant appears, holding a cup of what must be coffee from the aroma.

She takes a huge gulp, sets the cup down on the table, and clicks open her pen.

"So, Clove," she eyes me from head to toe. I feel immediately self-conscious in my almost see-through robe. I know its part of the Games, but I'm much more into the whole killing part. The beauty contest fraction doesn't interest me.

"I've been thinking about how to style you and your partner all year long," she says, almost dreamily. "I obviously can't use bold colors like I always do, since your district's industry is mining and weapons. There's nothing colorful in that."

_Yet somehow you've incorporated bright neon into past years' outfits_, I think. I rack my brains, trying to remember what our tributes wore last year. The memory's faint. I don't normally pay attention to the opening ceremonies—or any of the Capitol events. Then I remember Livonia styled District 1 last year. She'd dressed them in outfits of frilly silk with buttons and ribbons everywhere. It was highly unfeminine for the boy—I remembered feeling sorry for him.

_Please no lace_, I pray silently in my head. I imagine Cato decked out in something like last year, and bite back laughter. Cato, a big hulking person like he is, wearing something as silly as frills. He'd probably have a menacing look as we ride out into the square, trying to look manly in his outfit. At least it would be entertaining for me. It would be payback for when he mocked me about my foot being asleep.

"Clove? _Clove?_ Are you listening?" I realize Livonia is calling me back down to earth. I blink and look at her.

"Yes?"

"What do you think? Doesn't my idea sound fantastic?" she asks excitedly.

"Um . . .yes," I stammer, not having heard a single word she's said.

Who knows what I'm going to wear now?

**Third chapter will be up soon. :) I've hidden a few interesting facts in the plot that I made up (they have to do with the names I invented, so they're not actually true). I'll be listing these later for you to guess :)**


	3. Chapter 3

3

An hour later, I am fully dressed and ready for the ceremonies. I have to admit, Livonia did a nice job this year. There's not a piece of lace or ribbon anywhere. And all the colors are grays, like our mining.

I'm dressed in a short gray flounced skirt and black fishnet tights. When I move, black coal dust floats out of the skirt material, but instead of staining to everything and making me choke, it turns into black glitter. My feet are encased in black heeled leather boots that are practically a death trap for my feet. The stiletto heel rises at least five and a half inches. At least I won't be walking much. My top is a corseted tank which my prep team laced up in the back, nearly cutting off my airway. The top has a sort of grunge look to it; it looks a bit torn and battered, especially at the hem, having the look of some assassin who just escaped her mission slightly battered. Why she would wear five-inch heels to kill someone, I do not know. But the corset top isn't the main part. It's the X-shaped weapons belt that Livonia slides over my head and fits snugly across my chest. Lining the entire front are clips of bullets, but instead of the lethal ammunition, they are fake ones. They look exactly the same, but they flicker and light up, as if they are on fire. The brief split-second of fire that you see when you shoot a gun.

I have to admit. I look pretty intimidating. My dark eyes and hair only compliment it more, making me more shadowy and intimidating. Livonia has nicely mixed the mining and weapon industry into my outfit.

For my hair, she has it loosely curled and hanging down my back like waves. My makeup includes dramatic black liquid eyeliner, gold metallic eyeshadow, and deep red lipstick. For my jewelry I have little bullets like the ones on my belt that emit sparks. A whole bunch of them hang from a silver chain around my neck, two from my ears, and the remaining ones dot my hair.

Lastly, Livonia attaches to the top of my boots a small black clip. "It's a special canister that will trigger an ashy smoke effect the minute your chariot enters the square," Livonia explains.

"Will it make me cough?" I ask hesitantly.

"Not at all, dear," she says airily. "Now come along. It's almost time for the show. We need to meet up with Cato and the others."

After admiring myself one last time in the mirror, I follow Livonia and my prep team out the room, wincing as I walk in my heels.

We meet Cato and Livonia's assistant, a purple-skinned lady named Jacqueé, at the elevator. Cato's outfit has the same elements as mine. Dark gray army pants (minus the glitter effect) and boots and a shirt, completely covered by his huge weapons belt. His bullet clips, too, are flickering, and I'm sure he has the same smoke canisters in his boots.

He flashes me a look, glancing at me from top to bottom, and suddenly I feel my face flush. I saunter onto the elevator as confidently as I can, head high, and keep my gaze on the panel of buttons inside, ignoring him.

Down at the basement of the Remake Center are the stables. Horses of many different kinds are being led out of their stalls, brushed, groomed, and saddled. There's the distinctive smell of manure and hay in the air. I wrinkle my nose. Livonia and Jacqueé lead us toward the front, where District 2's stall is. A few tributes are already down there with their stylists. They turn and watch us walk by. You can tell they're impressed with our costumes. I am confident we'll make a bang at the show.

Our horses are big powerful grayish-black stallions with flowing manes. They've been trained so well there's no need for a driver. Livonia and Jacqueé help us into our chariot seats, fussing over the smallest details, touching up my hair and makeup, adjusting my skirt, checking the smoke canisters. I roll my eyes at Cato, and he chuckles.

"Okay, we're set!" whispers Livonia excitedly, stepping back and admiring her work of art. "Don't forget to smile. You'll _own _the audience. They'll love you!"

With a couple of minutes left to go, I look around curiously at the other tribute pairs. District 1, a stall ahead of us, is dressed in lovely bright tunics and oversized jewels. They make luxury items for the Capitol. I see Glimmer, her luxurious blonde hair falling in long waves down her back. And Marvel, seemingly out of place amongst the jewels with his massive frame.

District 4, fishing, is dressed in aquamarine outfits, with the fishnet element almost everywhere. The girl's earrings are tridents that sparkle and her eye makeup is a flashy sea green. District 11, agriculture, is wearing khaki colors to resemble grain. Boring.

Then District 12 appears lastly. They're a long way down the line, but I can make out that girl I saw at the reaping. Little Miss Katniss Everdeen, volunteering to take her little sister's place. For some reason, it irritates me. Maybe the fact that her choice was as noble as mine. It was almost as if she stole the spotlight from me. It was even more emotional because her little sister had cried. And she was _actually _related.

"Don't worry about her," mutters Cato, as if reading my thoughts.

I glance back one more time. 12 is dressed in black jumpsuit type things. I can't make out what's the deal behind them, but before I can think more about it, the doors of the stables groan open and the roar of the crowd fills my ears. I turn forward just as District 1's chariot enters the square. Our horses begin their canter. Livonia and Jacqueé flash me a thumbs up before I'm engulfed by the crowd and music.

Cato and I sit straight-backed in our seats as the crowd welcomes us. I can tell they find the flickering bullets a wonderful touch—especially the ones in my hair.

I wave at the crowd, giving them my best smile, and when I catch a glimpse of my face in the big screen, I'm pleased to see I actually look happy but also foreboding, reminding the crowd who I am and why I'm here. Down inside, I just can't wait for the training to begin.

We roll down the cobblestone road toward the city circle. Just as we reach the fountain, there's a collective gasp in the crowd. I whirl around in my seat, not bothering to be discreet about it. District 12 has just entered. And the only thing I can see is that the two tributes are on fire. Literally. From head to toe, flames lick at their clothing. Now I begin to understand the jumpsuits.

I grit my teeth and face forward. They practically copied us. We have almost the same concept, but on a small scale.

I glance at Cato, and I can tell he's got a hard look on his face. We circle the fountain and come to a stop in front of the president's mansion. We wait for the remaining chariots to come to a halt, for the cheers to die down, for the music to stop.

I now have a better view of District 12, especially from the big screen above the mansion. I can see that girl, Katniss Everdeen, gazing around. Her skin seems to glow from the fire around her headpiece. It's most likely fake, but certainly realistic enough. And so huge that it makes our little bullets seem like a laughing stock. Even though it's dark I can see Katniss's face clearly. She rather skinny—it's no secret that District 12 is a poor district. Her face seems a bit nervous and almost sickened. She doesn't want to be here obviously. Then I notice something strange. She's holding hands with her male tribute, a boy about her age with blonde hair, who looks even more frightened than she is. Why on earth would they do that? Try to become friends before they kill each other in the arena? I can't seem to understand, but President Snow has entered out of his mansion and all eyes are on him now.

The president gives his usual welcome speech, and talks about the Games, etc. I keep glancing at the screens. They're supposed to give each district a good amount of camera time, but 12's obviously getting the most. I grip the sides of the chariot until my knuckles turn white.

"Looks like Loverboy from District 12's got a little crush," whispers Cato.

I look up and find him staring at the District 12 chariot. The blonde boy is gazing at Katniss Everdeen with a look of rapt attentiveness. His eyes never leave her, and I hardly doubt it's the fantastic flames around her. It's obvious from his eyes that he adores her—probably loves her.

I turn to Cato and smirk.

"Dibs," he says.

"Fine," I agree. "But I want my hands on the girl."

Finally, the speech ends and the national anthem begins. The chariots carry us to the Training Center after one last lap around the circle. The cameras cut to the other tributes for a millisecond, but they all return to little Miss Everdeen and her flaming state. For the first time in ages, District 12 has made a good impression at the opening ceremonies. That isn't good.


	4. Chapter 4

4

That night we (me, Cato, Wilcorn, Brutus, Enobaria, and our stylists) gather for dinner in the dining room on the District 2 floor of the Training Center. The meal is as extravagant as the one on the train: four courses, with everything from lamb stew to an exquisite vegetable dish spiced with an odd seasoning that gives a pungent smell.

The adults toast their wine to the Games and Wilcorn, Brutus, and Enobaria applaud Livonia and Jacqueé at their outfits.

"Except District 12 stole the spotlight," I glower, pushing my peas around on my plate.

"I know!" exclaims Jacqueé in outrage, setting down her wine glass with a thunk. "I thought for sure we'd be the only ones doing fire for our costumes! They made an even bigger hit!"

Livonia wrinkles her nose in disgust. "I hear 12's got a new stylist, some unknown named Cinna," she says. "Obviously he's got talent. And he can work with what he's got—a boring district with inexperienced, uncooperative tributes. I remembered in my early days when I styled 12's tributes." She shudders. "Those children were bone thin and didn't have an ounce of personality. They just sat there in the carriage and didn't wave or anything!"

"Cato and I noticed something," I say slyly.

"What?" asks Brutus.

"The District 12 boy has eyes for the girl, Katniss Everdeen. Cato and I saw him staring at her in the city circle like she was a goddess."

"He's in love with her," says Cato confidently.

"They probably knew each other before they were reaped," muses Enobaria. "District 12's a very small district."

"Well, love can easily be severed," I smirk. "Especially in the arena. We can turn the girl against him, break his heart—something like that. It'll be lots of fun."

"Remember, dibs on the boy," says Cato to me.

Wilcorn rolls his eyes. "You've barely gotten here and you're calling shots on which tribute you want to kill."

"No, I like it," says Brutus. "Gives them an edge. Makes them deadlier. And it keeps their heads together—they know why they're here. Not to wear fancy costumes and be a celebrity. They're here to be in a ruthless bloodbath."

I decide I like Brutus.  
>"In fact, say stuff like that in your interviews," says Enobaria. "It'll scare off the others. Plus the citizens like to see some tough ones in the arena. It makes good show."<p>

After dinner we retreat to our sitting room, even more spacious than the one on the train, and watch a brief recap of the ceremonies. Then Brutus and Enobaria send us straight off to our bedrooms for a good night's sleep.

"Your training begins tomorrow, and I want you both up by eight o' clock so you'll be fully ready to perform," says Enobaria sternly.

At the word "training" Cato and I look at each other and then grin.

My bedroom is, thank goodness, more than one color. There's a theme of greens and blues everywhere. My bed has an enormous canopy and a mountain of pillows at one end. I wonder how I'll get in. Then I realize there's someone else in the room. A girl, probably in her early twenties, dressed in a white blouse with a square neckline and matching pants. I recognize this immediately as an Avox's uniform. She's obviously my servant.

The girl gestures that she has turned down my covers for the night, and then exits the room. They can't talk; their tongues have been chopped off because of the crime they committed. Mariana Xavier had a distant cousin who got caught by the Capitol doing who knew what and was sent away, presumably turned into an Avox. The thought warmed me when I found out. But then I remember I volunteered for her sister and suddenly I feel sickened.

I dash into the bathroom and hit a few buttons on the complicated panel that controls the shower. A jet of hot water gushes out, along with a strong fume of buttercups and roses. I pull off the clothes I changed into after the opening ceremonies and hop in. The hot water seems to wash away any memory of the Avox girl and Maya Xavier. I have a feeling Maya will haunt me in my dreams, or something of the sort.

I stay in the shower for a good twenty minutes, savoring the warmness. Then I start experimenting with the buttons. First a wave of pink bubbles engulfs me. Then I'm lathered in a thick yellow soap paste by large sponges attached to electronic arms. The sponges massage me for a few minutes before the hot water returns and I have to scrape it all off with a bristled brush.

I emerge into the steamy bathroom feeling like a walking rose with all the fumes surrounding me. I dry my hair and pull on a pair of soft pajama pants and sleep shirt before slipping into my bed. The sheets and pillows are soft and I fall asleep immediately.

But I was right. Maya Xavier does plague my dreams. First I experience a reenactment of the reaping today, except Mariana is picked. I still volunteer, however, but then Maya walks up to the stage, her eyes on me, which have turned a scary red shade. Then Katniss Everdeen appears, looking deadly in her fire costume. She says the words over and over: "I volunteered, I volunteered, I volunteered."

It's a while before the nightmares withdraw and I fall into a quiet slumber.

I awake to the sound of birds chirping. I immediately think of home, and how outside my window there's a crabapple tree that always has nests full of birds who wake me up. I smile in my sleep and open my eyes, pushing back the covers.

Then I realize it's not actual birds chirping. It's a stupid alarm clock that has a programmed alarm of recorded birds. How lame and typical of the Capitol.

I hit the snooze button irritably and get out of bed. The sun is streaming through my window, glinting over the Capitol. That, plus the garish bright colors of the buildings, makes the city look like a frosted candy-covered city.

After washing my face I pull my messy hair into a knot at the top of my head and open my wardrobe. The outfit at the front is what I see immediately. It's obvious I'm supposed to wear it today. Black pants in a firm but flexible material, and a fitted matching shirt over top, with the number 2 embroidered on the front and back. A dark maroon stripe runs along the side. Black boots complete the look. A small rim of sequins encircles the top part of the boots. I sense Livonia's style.

Gritting my teeth, I pull them off as best as I can with my fingers. There's no way I'm wearing sparkles to train today. People will think I'm a wimp. And I can't afford that after being outshined by District 12 last night.

I pull on the boots and head for the dining room, leaving a small pile of black sequins on the floor.

The table is already occupied by everyone else, except for Jacqueé, whom Livonia says has gone off to get her hair permed. There's a rouse of good mornings as I take my seat beside Cato. I'm relieved he's not dressed the same way. At least Livonia has some sense. Making us appear like twins would be childish and certainly not Career-ish. No, he's wearing a mesh shirt in a gray color, also with 2 on the front and back, and cargo pants, similar to his costume last night.

Knowing I'll be doing strenuous activities today, I fill my plate with generous amounts of eggs, bacon, and hot potatoes with cheese. I wash everything down with orange juice while I listen to Brutus and Enobaria talk about training tactics.

"Alright, listen up," says Brutus when we're finished. "Wilcorn's going to take you down in a minute. Here's what I want you to do today. _Don't hold back_. Normally tributes hide their special talents in front of the others and wait until they're in the private session with the Gamemakers. Don't. It'll show you're not worried about people finding out. The tributes will know you're so confident in what you do, you're not afraid of them matching up to you. You _have _to appear intimidating."

"And don't just use swords and knives," puts in Enobaria. "Throw weights around, climb a wall, anything that involves strength and looks foreboding. It'll throw the others off their track. And some of them only have a couple days to train." She grins at us with her creepy teeth.

"Alright, let's head off," says Wilcorn, clapping his hands together.

Out in the elevator, as we ride down to the basement, I notice Cato's got a small touch of silver sequins on the hem of his shirt. They blend in, but I don't see how he could've missed them.

"Nice sparkles, mermaid," I whisper.

He glances down at his shirt and his eyes go wide. "Livonia!" he growls, and then begins pulling them off one by one as fast as he can.

I give a short laugh. "I de-sparkled myself before we left," I say, pointing to my boots, where there are stray pieces of thread hanging out of the material.

By the time we reach the gymnasium, Cato's pulled them all out, more or less. I still have a huge smirk on my face as we step off the elevator. Cato glares at me.

Wilcorn bids us goodbye and we walk through the doors. I've never seen the gymnasium before—they don't show it on TV—but it's huge. Humongous. You could easily fit three of my house in it. Everything is a sleek silver chrome, from the walls to the tables and chairs, to the bars and obstacle courses that stand everywhere. Up above I see the Gamemaker's area, a balcony wrapping around the whole gym filled with comfortable chairs and tables. There are little stations along the walls that display useful skills from knot-tying to camouflage, to starting fires. But what catches my eye is the one whole wall dedicated to weapons. There's a whole line of them, neatly lined up in order of size. There are knives, spears, swords, you name it. I see Cato's eyes glued to a particularly lethal-looking silver sword that gleams under the fluorescent lighting. There's hardly anyone in the gym, since it's still a quarter to nine. A lady dressed in a training outfit is hacking at a straw dummy all the way on the other side with a sword. She's probably our trainer, having a little fun before the others come.

Although I'm itching to get my hands on some knives, I suggest to Cato that we warm up a bit by running a few laps on the marked running tracks that weave through the room.

We start to jog at a measurable pace. I have to work a little harder to keep up with his long strides. Although I've got long legs, Cato's still a good foot taller than me. By our second lap, the other Careers from 1 and 4 have arrived. We stop and walk over to them; they immediately recognize us from the 2's on our shirts.

The District 1 boy, Marvel, doesn't hesitate at all. He holds out a large calloused hand. "I'm Marvel."

The others introduce themselves and I remember their names from the reapings. Juna and Kellar from 4 and of course, Glimmer, the stunning supermodel, that I remember from last night.

"I'm Cato and this is Clove," says Cato, gesturing at the two of us.

"What are you two capable of?" asks Glimmer, getting down to business immediately.

"Pretty much anything," I say. "I don't know about him, though." I jerk my head at Cato. "He says he's decent with a sword."

"Decent?" repeats Cato, looking slightly annoyed.

"I'm kidding." I punch him in the arm lightly.

"And what about you?" asks Glimmer, a small smile—maybe a smirk—growing on her face.

"My specialty is knives."

"Excellent," whispers Glimmer.

For the next few minutes we exchange information about ourselves, our strong suits and what we need a bit of work on. I'm mostly well trained in every weapon, but I know I lack any sort of talent in wilderness survival. And you never know what's going to be in the arena. All trees? No food? I could probably take down a squirrel or something but how would I skin it?

By then the rest of the tributes have arrived. The training lady, who's finished hacking her dummy (which is now a bunch of straw pieces on the floor), jogs over to us as we gather in the center.

She introduces herself as Atala. She's almost as tall as Cato, which is saying something, and her skin is a dark bronze. She reads a list of all the stations in the gym which we are free to go to. Cato cracks his knuckles when she says "weaponry" and I see the boy tribute from District 6 next to him pale a bit.

While she talks, I glance around at my competition. A vast majority of the tributes look scared out of their wits now that they're on level ground with their fellow competitors and not glammed up like last night. Most are around the average age of tributes, between fourteen and sixteen. The exceptions are obviously that little girl from 11. Most of the girls are around my size, some a little taller. The boys don't surpass Cato or Marvel, but they're a good couple inches taller than me; some are obviously a bit toned, but that shouldn't be a problem.

I notice Katniss Everdeen and her boy partner, Lover Boy. They're dressed the same. Good gracious. What's going in the mind of their stylist? No one else seems to have the same thing on. The two of them are standing rather close to each other. Maybe two inches apart. It's a different stance from the rest of us. Cato and I are a good foot away from each other. We're hostile. We don't care about each other. But Katniss and Lover Boy seem to be . . . . friends almost. Or maybe more. Maybe Lover Boy came out last night and told her his feelings . . . .

Atala finishes talking and we break. I give Cato a glance and we immediately head to the weapons wall. Finally.

I immediately seize the first knives I can get my hands on, remembering Brutus and Enobaria's instructions to not hold back. Then I head straight for one of the targets nearby. I adjust my footing, draw my arm back, then fling the knife forward. It soars through the air and lands with a thud in the bull's eye.

Two watching tributes stare at me. I ignore them, resisting the urge to smirk, and fling another knife.

I keep practicing, now aiming at farther targets, and then I change to bigger knives and higher points.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Cato sword-fighting with a trainer. We're not allowed to engage in any sort of combat with the tributes. Wouldn't be great if you accidentally killed one of them before the actual fighting began.

Cato swings and slashes with brutal force and his blows land very accurately. Already the trainer has a sheen of sweat over his face as he works hard to block the blows.

I abandon the knives when I get bored of the lack of variety in targets, and move on to spears. They're a bit more difficult: longer, heavier, and with less point, but I manage well. I remember Zephyr's instructions on spear-throwing.

The morning passes rather uneventfully. I take note of the other tributes. Some are terrible, handling an axe for the first time in their lives. I notice Everdeen and Lover Boy are avoiding the popular stations, the weapons and weights. Instead they're at the boring ones such as knots and camouflage. Are they _trying _to loose?

Lunch rolls around and in the gym cafeteria, attendants wheel out carts laden with food. I serve myself a tray, limiting my portions or else I know I'll barf on the training floor. I sit with Cato, Marvel, Glimmer, Juna, and Kellar at one of the tables. We're obviously a clique. The popular, threatening group. No one dares sit at our table. It's almost like school.

The other tributes sit by themselves, picking at their food silently. Everdeen and Lover Boy have a table to themselves. I see them exchange stories elatedly, with gestures and laughs. It's sickening.

Our table is the most rowdy. Cato and Marvel toss jokes back and forth and we roar with laughter. Juna seems quite the entertainer as well, challenging Marvel to see who can down their glasses water first in one gulp. She wins.

Then the talk turns toward our homes. Juna comes from a large family of seven children. Kellar is an only child, but his parents were expecting him to volunteer.

"I'm not afraid to take risks," he says.

"Did you two know each other before the reaping?" Glimmer asks me and Cato.

I think for a moment.

"Yes," says Cato.

"But only by name," I add. "I thought you were annoying."

"What?" he gasps, looking offended.

I grin. "Maybe I thought you were better in training than I was. But it's clear you're not." I wink.

There's a chorus of "Ooooh!" at our table.

Cato shakes his head, wagging a finger at me. "You just wait, Clove. You wait till we get into that arena. I'll take out more tributes than you within the first ten minutes."

"What a lovely relationship we have," I say sarcastically, rolling my eyes.

He laughs and throws an arm around my shoulders. Why so friendly now? It makes me feel slightly uncomfortable but I leave it there. It shows District 2 is more united than usual.

"You're a lot more fun than Brutus and Enobaria, that's for sure," says Cato.

"Are those your mentors?" asks Glimmer, interested.

"I remember their Games," says Kellar. "Enobaria was the one—"

"—who tore that person's throat out with her teeth," I nod.

"And then had them cosmetically altered?" asks Juna.

I shudder. "She reminds me of a shark."

A bell rings and we return to the training room.

And so it continues for three days. We meet up each morning and train hard. The second day I duel Cato in the weaponry section. For the irony of it, he uses knives and I use a sword, just to see how we are with each other's weapons.

He beats me, but barely, since I almost had him disarmed. I'm pleased with the few cuts I gave him on his arms. But Cato won't let me hear the end of it.

"What happened to those extra three years of training?" he taunts as I try and fail to turn away and ignore him.

He keeps it up for the rest of the day, appearing randomly at my side, tugging the braid down my back, and saying it in a singsong voice.

The third day is most important: the Gamemakers are present in their little balcony above us, observing our training. I make sure to appear especially brutal in my knife-throwing. To avoid Cato and his mockery, I challenge Kellar to a battle with a pair of knives. We're evenly matched, but I still beat him.

"You're pretty good," he says when we finish, hanging his weapon back on the wall. He gives me a rare smile that I've never seen before on his face. It seems almost genuine. As if he really means it. Or maybe he likes me a bit.

I don't know. I'm much too confused about us Careers making cozy relationships now. It's only a matter of time before we'll kill each other. And I know we will. There's no way the wimps from the other districts will be able to finish us off.

My thoughts keep returning to Kellar throughout the rest of the morning. Each time I happen to be glancing in his direction, he's looking at me. It makes me nervous, but a small warm feeling begins at the pit of my stomach. His eyes remind me of the sea.

During lunch, the Gamemakers call us out one by one by our district numbers for the private session. I'm fourth to go. When I enter the gym, I immediately head for the knives, as usual.

I load a few onto my belt and stand sixty yards away from a line of straw dummys hanging from ropes attached to the ceiling. I feel the Gamemakers' eyes on me, but I ignore them.

I select my first knife, and fling it toward the first dummy. It hits it directly in the heart, wobbling for a second from the impact. For the second knife, I throw it at a curve, and it slices through the dummy, cutting it right in half at the waist. The third, I send it whirling. And when I've struck each one, I seize a machete on the ground and fling it at a higher angle. It slices through each of the ropes holding up the line of dummies, one by one. The dummies fall to the ground like dominoes. To finish my act, I scale one of the obstacle courses nearby, swing, jump, and crawl through it, grab a spear from the wall and throw it at the pile of dummies on the ground, piercing the direct center.

A few Gamemakers applaud. They all look impressed; a few make notes on their notepads, and then the head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane, dismisses me.

I give a curt nod, and turn and head out the doors, a confident smile on my face. I pass Kellar on my way out; he smiles at me warmly and his fingers brush my hand.

Cato's waiting at the elevators outside.

"How'd it go?" he asks as we ride up to the second floor. "Never mind, you've got that grin on like you've won the Games already."

"What about you?" I ask.

"I did some fancy stuff and they all applauded me."

"Only some applauded for me."

"Oh really?" This sets him off again. "What happened to those extra years of training?" he says in that annoying singsong voice.

We reach our floor. "Better watch out in the arena," I warn. "Maybe I'll have to take you on at the beginning."

"You wouldn't," he says, appalled.

"Why? Too scared to fight a _girl_?" I simper. Then I do the last thing he'd expect—or _I'd _expect. I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. Then I smirk and prance off to my room.


	5. Chapter 5

5

_Clove, why did you do that? Why on earth did you do that? What's he going to think?_

The same sentence runs through my head over and over. _Why_ did I kiss Cato on the cheek? Sure, it was probably nothing. But now he knows there's something going on. And there isn't. There never will be. We'll have to _kill _each other. I keep telling myself that.

Cato is merely a fellow . . . . I want to say friend. Maybe even a brother. No, he's just another tribute. Someone I know a little more. Someone from home. Maybe that's why I'm attached to him.

The least I can do now is act like it never happened. I don't want to shut myself out from everyone. Sure, it'll help me survive, but that's now how I am. I need people in my life. And right now the only ones are my future possible killers. Best make the most of what you've got.

That night we watch the training scores on TV. The numbers range from one to twelve, twelve being the highest you can get. I'm certain I'll score at least a nine. Cato will probably get around a ten, and then a one thousand for the Most Bigheaded Tribute.

Tonight it's just the two of us and Wilcorn, Brutus, and Enobaria. They start with District 1, first showing the tribute picture, then the number. Marvel and Glimmer both get eights. Then comes Cato's face. He gets a nine. I get a ten.

"Ha!" I shout, jumping up in my seat, dancing around the sofa, and sticking my tongue out at Cato. "_That's _where all my extra years of training went! Into that score! Take _that_!" And I pick up a large pillow and throw it at him. It hits him right in the face.

"Hey!" he yells, and then seizes another one and flings it at me. It barely hits my head as I duck down. Whirling around, I search for another pillow, but then I feel a thwack on my back. Cato's pummeling me with another one.

I give a shriek and try to escape his blows, but then he picks me up like I'm a sack of flour and throws me over his shoulder. I give a scream, trying to wriggle out of his hold. "Put me down!"

"Wait!" There's something in Cato's voice. He sets me down immediately; I land with a thump on the floor.

"What is it?"

Cato's staring at the screen, his eyes wide. I look. We've missed the other tributes' scores but they just showed District 12's. Katniss Everdeen receives an eleven.

_Eleven._

I feel a shock jolt through me and I freeze.

_"What?"_ I whisper in a deadly voice. "How—did—she—get—that?"

"I don't know," says Cato, still gawking at the screen as if he doesn't believe it.

Lover Boy gets an eight. The same as Marvel and Glimmer. There must be something in these District 12 tributes that we underestimated.

"You two were too busy flirting to notice the other tributes' scores," says Brutus sarcastically.

I feel my face flush.

"That girl from 11, her name's Rue. She got a seven."

A _seven_. One less than Lover Boy. One less than Marvel and Glimmer. How could she have done that? She's half my size! She's just a child! She's had no training either.

"And her partner, Thresh, got a ten," adds Enobaria.

"The big dark one, isn't it?" asks Cato, his jaw clenched.

"Well," I say, trying to regain my composure. "We know who to target in the arena."

"You two better get off to bed," says Wilcorn. "Tomorrow you'll be working with me on your interviews."

I don't try to hide my groan.

"Nighty-night." Wilcorn waves us goodbye.

Cato and I walk out into the hall.

_"How did she do it?"_ I mutter furiously, pulling at my hair.

"I don't know," says Cato again, looking slightly dazed. He's got a mad gleam in his eye. I've already come to fear it. Thresh, Rue, and the District 12 lovers better watch out. Cato beat me with a knife. Which means he's unstoppable with a sword.

The next morning, the minute I wake up, an idea flies into my head. Probably from my dream, which I can't remember a single thing from, but I get out of bed immediately. The sun's barely even up and my clock reads seven in the morning, but I pull on some clothes and head down the hall to what I assume is Cato's room.

I knock quietly. There's a brief pause and then the door cracks open. Cato stands there, his hair messy in the back, squinting in the light.

"What time is it?" he groans.

"Um, seven?" I bite my lip.

Cato swears under his breath. "Clove! What are you thinking? The one day we don't have to train—!"

But I interrupt him by pushing him aside and entering his room without permission. It's much messier than mine. Boys.

"_What _are you doing?" he snaps, turning around to face me.

"I have a strategy," I say, placing my hands on my hips.

"For what?"

"Getting the best of Lover Boy and Everdeen in the arena."

The memory of their high scores from last night floods into his mind and his face forms a glower. At least he's awake now.

"He's in love," I say simply. "He'll sacrifice anything for her. So what we'lldo is target her directly. The minute the gong sounds, I'll head for her. I'll wound her, but not enough that she'll die. And then we'll take her hostage. When Lover Boy finds out, he'll be distraught and come and try to save her. But we'll corner him and kill him off. Then we'll finish Everdeen."

Cato blinks. "It's actually a pretty good plan."

"Of course it is," I say exasperatingly. "It's pure logic. All you and the other Careers have to do is keep Lover Boy and the others at bay. _I'll _take care of Everdeen." I jab a finger at my chest. "When I've got her captured, we can take care of the other tributes at the Cornucopia. You know how it is. Bloodbath day—with the highest death rate of the whole Games."

Cato nods, more or less. "But what if that somehow doesn't work? What if Everdeen gets away?"

I have an answer ready. "We switch plans. We take _Lover Boy_ and have him join our little group. We'll act like we want him to be a Career with us. Then when Everdeen finds out, she'll be confused. She won't know which side he's on. It doesn't guarantee her coming out to save him, but at least we've got Lover Boy. He can give us information on Everdeen. It's our next best plan."

"Fine," says Cato. "Now can you please get out? I want to go back to sleep."

I make a face at him and skip out of the room, my spirits suddenly lifted.

I _will _defeat Katniss Everdeen. And we won't have to worry about her again.

Later that morning, after breakfast, Wilcorn starts drilling us on how to behave during the interviews, which will be held tonight.

He takes Cato into the sitting room first, shutting the door behind them. Enobaria then takes the chance of my free time and imprisons me in my bedroom, making me practice my walk, posture, laugh, and smile. It's absolute torture, having to attempt to laugh genuinely in front of her. Then she puts me in dangerous-looking high heels and has me walk around the bedroom. At least I'm slightly more prepared in this area. I managed to survive the heeled boots Livonia put me in for the opening ceremonies.

"Are you happy?" I snap irritably, an hour later. My feet hurt and my cheeks are sore from smiling. I stand in front of Enobaria in the torture shoes, glowering.

"Yes, yes, you can go," she says airily, waving her hands. "Go find Wilcorn and tell Cato to come see me."

I kick off the shoes and stomp out of the room. My time with Wilcorn is no less fun. We find an angle for me to appear as in the interviews. I immediately choose determined fierceness. Wilcorn says Cato is going for sheer intimidation and brutality. We practice how I will act and answer questions, which I manage to pull of well enough. Maybe the fact that I'm actually a competitive, prideful killer in real life helps. Thankfully, our lesson only lasts half an hour, and then he releases me.

But my activities don't end there. Livonia pulls me aside for a fitting of my interview dress. She blindfolds my face so I don't see it before it's actually time—I tell her I'll hardly mind, but she doesn't listen. After a half hour of standing on a stool, holding my arms out and being poked with pins and needles, I'm finally free to go to lunch.

The rest of the day I have nothing to do, so I explore the entire floor of the Training Center. We're on the second floor, since we're District 2, and unfortunately we're forbidden to go anywhere else. I find several different rooms that I never knew existed, including one filled with odd paintings and sculptures, all distorted and in brash colors; a hall with a trickling fountain, the center of which stands a statue of President Snow himself; and a winding staircase on the other end of the hall that leads to a side balcony of the Training Center. Outside the sky is a bit cloudy and the wind whips my hair. All the sounds from the streets below float up to my ears: the honking of cars, squealing of wheels, barking of dogs, and citizens talking loudly in their high-pitched accents. It's not a pleasant, comfortable place but it's the most alone I've gotten in a long time. Somehow the wind and the noise of the city drowns out anything I say out loud to myself, and I highly doubt there are cameras around here. I spend the rest of my afternoon in solitude.

After dinner Livonia and the prep team drag me back to my bedroom to get ready for the interviews. Just by the sound of the word, my stomach feels squeamish.

First they scrub me in the bathtub until my skin feels raw, but, surprisingly, soft and rosy. Then they coat me in a sort of polish that makes my skin glow. A lady from the prep team, Una, does my hair in an intricate twist on the top of my head and fastens a jeweled headband on it. Then they do my makeup: hard, dark colors like blacks, purples, and indigos that blend together for my eyeshadow; intense eyeliner in metallic gold; bronzed cheeks; and a touch of dark red lipstick.

Livonia pulls my dress over my head and I see myself in the mirror for the first time. The dress seems to be three shades: metallic gold, black, and red, all intermixed. They seem to evolve into each other as the dress moves. The strapless bodice is covered in sparkles (Livonia's usual style) with a flaming rose attached to the sash. A long line of black buttons runs down the back ending in the long skirt. Not only is it beautiful, it's exquisite.

"Doesn't she look amazing?" breathes Livonia, bursting with pride at her work.

The prep team all nod in agreement.

"Hurry, now!" says Livonia. "They're supposed to leave soon!"

Una fits on a pair of shiny patent leather heels onto my feet; thankfully they're only three and a half inches. I notice that the heel, too, changes color with each step I take, going from bronze to black to crimson.

With everything pinned and fastened and touched up, Livonia leads me out into the hallway where everyone else is waiting by the elevator. Brutus and Enobaria have cleaned up a bit for the interviews (where they will be shown on television as well). Brutus wears a simple dark blue suit and Enobaria's decked in a short white satin dress, her platform shoes a bright purple shade. Jacqueé has outfitted Cato in a dark bottle-green tuxedo with interesting eye-catching details along the lapel and cuffs.

"Shall we go then?" says Wilcorn brightly, bouncing on his feet again. He hardly looks different, wearing a bright fuchsia pink pinstripe suit and heeled boots.

We ride down the elevator to the ground floor, where the tributes and their stylists are gathered. The interviews will be held in front of the Training Center, with a live camera crew and the entire city present.

They arrange us into a line starting with District 1 and stretching back to District 12. We've barely arrived on time, so I hardly get a glimpse at the others before I'm pushed into place near the front doors. I can already see the flashes of cameras outside and the chattering of the crowd. There's an enormous stage set up, with huge bulb lights blinking along the edges. A line of twenty-four gilt golden chairs is arranged in a semicircle along the back of the stage. In the center are two armchairs, one for the host, the well-known Caesar Flickerman, and one for the interviewee.

Livonia adjusts my headband, touches up my makeup one last time, and then pats my arm. "You're going to be wonderful?"

"Glower for me?" says Enobaria.

I narrow my eyes.

"Better."

The anthem begins playing and the doors are flung open. Cato offers me his arm and we walk follow Marvel and Glimmer out to meet the crowd.

There are lights literally everywhere. Shining from the stage, coming from the audience, shooting from the cameras, and plus the streetlamps and building lightings from the city. Again I resist the urge to squint my eyes or completely cover them up. Celebrity life is hard.

I stumble a bit over my heels as Cato and I walk up the steps of the stage and take our seats on the right end of the line of chairs. A number 2 is pinned to the back of mine. I will be the third to be interviewed. Best get it done with early in the show.

The crowd is roaring with applause as we sit there, some of us smiling a bit shyly, feeling baked under the lights. Then Caesar Flickerman dashes up the stage, waving animatedly, his powdered wig a periwinkle blue this year, and the spotlight is on him. The noise turns deafening. Caesar is well known in his role of the Games as interviewer. He's been doing it for as long as I can remember, and no one can deny he's good at it.

Caesar settles down comfortably on one of the armchairs and tells a few jokes to the crowd, talking about his wardrobe mishap back in his dressing room. He makes everything sound so much funnier than it is, with his wild gestures and different tones.

Then the show begins. Caesar calls forth Glimmer from her seat. She sails forward in a golden translucent gown with a poufy skirt, and settles down gracefully beside him.

Caesar asks her about her life back home in 1, what she likes most about the Capitol, and her training score, the Career-typical eight. Glimmer answers the questions flawlessly, batting her eyelashes, which have been coated in sparkly gold mascara. Her laughter peals like a tinkling river and when she throws her head back, her golden cascade of curls flies through the air. The audience is enraptured by her charming princess personality.

Then the bell dings and it's Marvel's turn. He's in a suit in the odd shade of cobalt blue. He wears a slight smirk on his face and he and Caesar talk about training in the Center and how competitive the others are.

Then I'm hearing my name called. "Clove Coltello!"

I swallow hard, clenching my shaking fists and rise as steadily as possibly, making my way to center stage. Caesar waits until I'm settled down comfortably before launching the first question:

"So why did you volunteer for the Hunger Games, Clove?" he seems genuinely interested.

"Oh, well, I've always wanted to compete in the Games," I begin, remembering to appear tough and intimidating. "It's a dream of mine." Technically I can't say I've been training for seven years—it's against the rules; but the Capitol knows anyway. "I've been waiting for just the right year. Not too young, but not too old. I never wanted to be reaped; I wanted to volunteer for someone?"

"And why's that?" asks Caesar. "Do you pity the other children who are picked? Do you wish to give them a second chance?"

"No," I say, my voice hard. "Volunteering shows a sign of coercion. It tells everyone you're coming because you want to, not because you have to. It shows them you're not afraid of the risks, of the difficulty of it all. It shows you're going in with the best you've got."

Caesar's eyebrows—colored a shade of indigo—shoot up. "Well! That's quite a reason! I'd personally watch out for Clove Coltello in the arena myself! Tell me about your dress. How do you like it?"

I glance down at the skirt with the interchanging colors. "My stylist, Livonia came up with it. Sequins and sparkles are a passion for her. I think it's gorgeous, especially how the colors interchange. As for the shoes—" I kick out my heeled foot "—they're a death trap." The audience chuckles. "Not just for me, but for a victim. The heels are as sharp as knives." I grin wickedly. "The perfect impromptu weapon."

Caesar gives a theatrical shudder. "And is that your major weapon? Knives?"

I nod. "I'm been throwing them since I was seven years old. I never miss."

"If you were to warn your fellow tributes one thing about you in the arena, what would it be?" Caesar whispers dramatically.

I think for a moment, a smirk appearing on my face. There's a hush in the audience. This is my chance. If I'm to make them remember me, I have to say something good. "I'd tell them to not just count on the knives. I can make anything into a weapon. I'm very multitalented, so don't underestimate me. And I'll be waiting for them at the Cornucopia." I give a sly grin.

The buzzer sounds just then. Caesar leads the audience in loud applause as I head back to the chairs. "Give it up for Clove Coltello of District Two!"

Cato's interview goes fairly well. He plays the role of the brutal, killing machine easily. His eyes seem to glint evilly on the screens. I can see several of the other tributes paling under their makeup. Katniss Everdeen looks sickened. Speaking of which, I have hardly noticed her, as I was too strung up about not messing up my own interview.

She looks a bit squeamish—but who doesn't?—and she's dressed in a long floor-length gown of bright red. There seem to be jewels sewn into the fabric. I wonder what her stylist has cooked up this time.

The other interviews pass uneventfully, at least for me. Since mine is done, I'm now rather bored; I scan the view around me from the stage, spot Livonia, Jacqueé, and even President Snow in the crowds. The sky above us, I note, is a purplish hue dotted with stars.

I'm about to die from the tedium by the time they reach District Eleven. Rue, the little twelve-year-old practically floats to the seat on flimsy-looking fairy wings. She beams like a little innocent fairy-princess and Caesar when asks her what her greatest strength is in the arena, she merely replies, "I'm very hard to catch. And if they can't catch me, they can't kill me. So don't count me out."

Thresh, her large-framed tribute partner answers his questions with yes's and no's or just plain grunts. He's got it easy.

Then they reach District Twelve. I sit on the edge of my chair, gripping the sides. Katniss Everdeen is making her way up to the interview seat. I'm rapt with attention. If I'm to receive any clues as to how Everdeen got her high training score—or really, any part of her, anything that will make her break in the arena, I've got to listen now.

Caesar and Everdeen shake hands and he asks her what has most impressed her since she got to the Capitol. Of course. I forgot. Capitol luxury is a _huge _change for those District 12 tributes coming from their sooty, poor, slum-of-a-district.

Katniss looks dazed—confused, even—for a second. Her eyes scan the crowd, and then she seems to come to herself. "The lamb stew," she whispers, barely audible.

Caesar laughs loudly and the audience joins in. I grit my teeth.

"The one with the dried plums?" he asks. "Oh, I eat it by the bucketful." Then he turns sideways and places a hand on his stomach in shock. "It doesn't show, does it?" The audience, roaring with laughter, objects to this.

Everdeen looks a bit relieved that the spotlight has turned to Caesar again.

"Now Katniss," says Caesar, clapping his hands together. "When you came out in the opening ceremonies, my heart actually stopped. What did you think of that costume?"

Katniss licks her lips nervously. "You mean after I got over my fear of being burned alive?"

Loud laughs and applause. Everdeen seems a bit pleased that she's made the audience laugh.

"Stupid, charming twit," I mutter to myself, briefly reminded of how I used to insult Mariana Xavier. Katniss Everdeen seems to have taken Mariana's place and pushed the competition between us up a whole notch. She just doesn't know it.

"Yes, start then," Caesar is saying.

"I thought Cinna was brilliant and it was the most gorgeous costume I'd ever seen and I couldn't believe I was wearing it," Katniss rushes out. "I can't believe I'm wearing this either." She picks up her skirt and spreads it out. "I mean, _look _at it!"

She almost sounds like the snobby wealthier girls at school who always wear a different dress to class, always telling the others to "_Look_ at it!" as if we have to. If it weren't for the slight quavering in Everdeen's voice, and the fact that Old Ida, a widow from back home, is even richer than her, I would actually associate her with those girls.

Everdeen slowly rises and spins in a circle. Everyone is instantly enthralled.

"Oh, do that again!" begs Caesar. Katniss twirls again and the bright reds and yellows of her dress flare up like the flickering tongues of flames, the glinting jewels in the fabric creating a genuine, breathtaking effect of fire.

Applause begins again, and I follow along halfheartedly, rolling my eyes.

"Don't stop!" says Caesar, as Katniss clutches his arm giddily.

"But I have to, I'm dizzy!" she protests. Now she sounds like one of those ditzy blonde girls at school who don't know the difference between an orange and a tree.

Caesar encircles his arm around her waist protectively, displaying a sort of affection that he never showed with the other tributes. Almost as if she's his daughter. "Don't worry, I've got you. Can't have you following in your mentor's footsteps."

I'm confused as I watch the cameras zoom in on the row of mentors in front of us. A sandy-haired man in his late forties grins sheepishly at the camera. Then I recall him at Twelve's reaping having dived headfirst off the stage in a drunken state. If that's Everdeen and Lover Boy's help for the Games, I sincerely wish them the best of luck. And I'm not one do wish my adversaries luck.

"It's alright," Caesar tells the crowd. "She's safe with me." I want to puke. "So, how about that training score? E-le-ven." He draws out each word exaggeratingly. "Give us a hint what happened in there."

I lean forward even further in my seat. This will be juicy news.

Katniss bites her lip, looking at the group of Gamemakers sitting overhead on a balcony. "Um . . . . all I can say is I think it was a first."

_Oh, do tell? _I think sarcastically.

The cameras now zoom in on the Gamemakers, most of which are chuckling lightly.

"You're _killing us_!" gasps Caesar, dramatically miming a knife plunging into his chest. "Details, _details!_"

"I'm not supposed to talk about it, right?" Katniss says to the Gamemakers.

"She's not!" yells out one of them, a pudgy man in a brown suit.

"Thank you," says Everdeen sweetly. "Sorry. My lips are sealed."

I swear furiously in my mind. That _one chance_ of finding out more about this girl is blown away because of stupid rules.

Caesar changes the subject, realizing they're not going to get any succulent insider information. "Let's go back then, to the moment they called your sister's name at the reaping." His tone sounds more serious now, maybe even a bit sad. "And you volunteered. Can you tell us about her?"

"Her name's Prim," whispers Katniss. "She's just twelve. And I love her more than anything."

I swear some of the brainwashed Capitol citizens near the front row are actually _dabbing _their eyes from tears. All's silent in the circle now as Everdeen tells her sentimental, mournful story that will capture millions of hearts and be made into a documentary film when she dies.

"What did she say to you? After the reaping?" questions Caesar.

Katniss swallows. "She asked me to try really hard to win."

"And what did you say?"

Katniss's voice seems to drop an octave when she speaks. "I swore I would."

"I bet you did." Caesar gives her arm a squeeze. The buzzer rings. "Sorry we're out of time. Best of luck, Katniss Everdeen, tribute from District Twelve."

The listeners start clapping again, shouting out her name, calling out words of encouragement. It's nauseating.

Lastly, Lover Boy walks up to the interviewee seat. The final tribute of the night. All previous ones have gone. I know he's the closest thing to Everdeen that's going to be broadcasted tonight. If I want to find out more about her now's my last chance.

I glance at Cato, who's been giving Katniss a death glare. He catches my gaze and nods, turning to stare at Lover Boy. Time to find out how soft he really is. How easy he'll be to bend and break. What his weak point's are.

Caesar introduces Lover Boy as Peeta Mellark. Like pita, but P-E-E-T-A. Must be a baker's son.

My jaw drops when Peeta says he actually is. Oh, the irony. He seems a natural comedian, like Caesar. They're a big hit, swapping jokes about the showers at the Capitol, the rich luscious food, and the breads of the other districts.

"Tell me, do I still smell like roses?" is a big hit with the crowd.

_Ugh._

Then Caesar asks him if he has a girlfriend back home. This should be good. I've never quite looked at Lover Boy closely, but he does have the sort of appearance most typical girls would go for. He's got soft blonde hair and deep blue eyes, and he seems passionate about everything he says. I picture him spending most of his days reading books and drinking tea, possibly discussing philosophy with who knows who? He's the type of boy who cares more about world peace and love rather than sheer strength. The type of cheesy stuff girls go for. He's probably a strong person, just not on the outside. Too bad that's what you need in the arena.

I watch as Lover Boy wavers at Caesar's question and then unpersuasively shakes his head.

"Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl," probes Caesar.

Yes, Peeta. We all know there's a special someone back in District Twelve who loves to drink tea and read books and discuss life with you.

But then it comes crashing down on me. I remember I know who Peeta Mellark loves. This is a topic that should never be touched in the public interviews. Because it will give both Mellark _and _Everdeen leverage in the arena. It may even spoil the Careers' plans.

Oh no.

I widen my eyes and Cato. He's already caught on.

"Come on, what's her name?" asks Caesar. Oh, no, oh no, oh no . . . .

Peeta Mellark sighs. "Well, there's this one girl," he begins. Well haven't we all heard that? "I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the reaping."

This is bad.

But despite my nervousness, I can't stop thinking: when I was nine years old, I'd had my first crush on a boy at school. He had dark hair and I was just as fast as him (that's how I grade nice-looking boys: by how fast they run). I never told him how I felt. Because I was pretty sure he was in love with Mariana Xavier. Her and her pretty brown locks and enormous eyes. It was the first time I felt I had an actual reason to hate her.

The crowd sighs with longing and pity. They can relate. Just like I can, amazingly enough.

"She have another fellow?" asks Caesar.

No she doesn't, no she doesn't, no she doesn't . . . .at least I don't think she does . . . .Not good, not good.

"I don't know," says Mellark, "but a lot of boys like her."

I'm caught off guard. _Really? _They like that sappy girl who wears fire dresses and giggles all the time? Who doesn't have an ounce of prettiness in her?

"So here's what you do," says Caesar. Because we all know how wonderful he is at love advice. "You win, you go home—she can't turn you down then, eh?"

There's a slight flaw in that plan. The only way Peeta Mellark is going home is cold-skinned and in a wooden coffin.

"I don't think it's going to work out. Winning . . . won't help in my case," mumbles Lover Boy.

"Why ever not?" asks Caesar quizzically.

NO!

I grab the first thing my hand seizes—Cato's arm—and dig my fingers into it, grinding my heels into the carpeted floor.

Mellark's crimson red. "Because . . . because . . . . she came here with me."


	6. Chapter 6

6

The effect of his words is instantaneous. The cameras immediately frame Katniss Everdeen's confused blushing face. The screen above us is split in two now, showing both of them at the same time.

Katniss clamps her lips together and keeps her eyes on the floor, trying obviously to hold a poker face. I don't know what she knows. I don't know if this was planned by their mentor. I don't know if she was in it the whole time. I don't know if she knew Peeta Mellark loved her before.

All I know is who the Capitol citizens are. I know who they'll want to sponsor now. I'm a step ahead of them already. Lovers doomed from the same home to kill each other before live television? Reality shows don't even get that good!

Now my plan's ruined. Katniss Everdeen and Lover Boy will team up. They'll become allies—possibly even play along the "we're in love" role in the arena, create some sappiness for the show. They'll get more sponsors, more gifts than ever. Even worse, if I happen to kill them both _and _win the Games, I'll forever be known as Clove Coltello, victor of the 74th Hunger Games, but also killer of the star-crossed lovers of District 12. It'll mean fame, but not in the good way.

If Everdeen and Mellark team up in the arena, it'll be even harder to break through them. They'll be a strong force, probably keeping to themselves, with an eleven and eight in training. Sure, we've got four more Careers than they do, but they've got the whole city at their backs. One knife in the chest, and we'll never be forgiven. Even if we do die in the Games, quite possibly our monument at the Capitol (if they even give us one) will bear some harsh phrase of accusation.

I know how the Capitol citizens are. They think any moment of scandal is great fun. They love the dramatic soap opera-y stories thrown at them. And they're very protective of their past victors and the tributes they take great favor in. Mellark has already put District Twelve in that position. He must've known this is how they would react. He must've known that confessing his love would immediately give him and Everdeen all the leeway they want. It's like saying, "You can't kill me because everybody loves me."

It takes all the self-control in the world—that and a lot of clawing Cato's arm—to not simply scream, _"NO!" _right on TV.

I try and focus on what Caesar's saying. ". . . piece of bad luck." He sounds authentically sorry for Peeta's ill fate.

"It's not good," nods Mellark.

"Well, I don't think any of us can blame you," says Caesar. I can. I very much can. "It'd be hard not to fall for that young lady. She didn't know?"

Peeta Mellark shakes his head. "Not until now."

Well, that clears up that one question. But that just makes everything worse.

Katniss's face matches her dress now. It's fiery red. She obviously hasn't been taught how to mask her feelings—all girls should.

"Wouldn't you love to pull her back out here and get a response?" Caesar asks the crowd. They're screaming "yes!", practically throwing themselves forward onto the stage in plea.

"Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss Everdeen's time has been spent."

Thank God girl tributes go before boys. I don't know how much more my plan would've been ruined if Katniss got to say something about this.

"Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours."

I snort quietly and only Cato hears me. He gives me a pained look. I realize I've practically scratched his skin raw. Guiltily, I pull my hand back.

The anthem starts playing loudly and the tributes file back into the Center, but there's a different atmosphere in the spectators. There's hardly any cheering or applause—more moans, sobs, and outright cries of anger. And there's a chanting of Katniss and Peeta's name. I hope I can make it back to our floor before I start destroying things around me.

The minute the elevator drop us off, I storm into my bedroom and kick off my heels. One of them hits a light fixture and the glass shatters, falling to the ground.

I furiously rip off my dress, ignoring the fact that Livonia has spent hours toiling away with it. It's no use now. It's practically a faded memory in the minds of the Capitol citizens. All they can remember is Katniss and her flaming dress and Katniss and her giggles and Katniss and her blush and twirling and Peeta's declaration of love for her.

I'm literally seething with rage. All my hard work and planning to try and devise a way to kill them, all thrown down the drain. By a simple sentence spoken by that stupid, stupid boy.

I yank on some sleep attire and jerk the tiara headpiece from my hair, wincing as it catches on a few strands. I toss it across the room and plop down on a cushioned chair, gripping the sides.

I sit there for a moment, catching my breath and trying to regain control of myself. This has always been a problem for me. I have a bitter temper. And I throw fits very often and over the slightest little things. I used to get the most detentions in class when I was younger. I didn't improve as I moved up to higher grades and learned swear words. One boy told me once that it gave me an edge—made me spunky. I slapped him.

When I can finally think coherently, I get up and set off to find Cato.

I knock on his bedroom door. "Cato? Cato. Cato, open up."

There's no answer. I decide to risk it and carefully open the door. The sight before me is horrendous.

Cato sits on the floor of his bedroom, a broken plant pot strew around him, wilted leaves and soil everywhere. A large jagged piece of the pottery is in his hand and he's cutting his already scratched wrists. Blood streams from the jagged slash on his arm.

"CATO!" I shriek, dashing over and wrenching the pottery from his hands. "You're entering the arena tomorrow morning and you're _cutting yourself_?"

Cato doesn't respond; I may as well be talking to a deaf person. He doesn't resist, though, as I examine his wound. It's pretty deep; he seems to have hit a major vein.

"Idiot, idiot, idiot," I growl through my teeth. "What is _wrong _with you? Come on, you're going to need bandages or something."

I grip his fine arm firmly and drag him out of the room. Weirdly enough, he follows along like an obedient puppy. Wilcorn, Brutus, and Enobaria are no where to be seen, presumably in bed, and I don't want to disturb them so I haul Cato to the elevator down to the hround floor myself and find a first aid kit in a supply closet.

Back upstairs I sit him down on an ottoman in the sitting room and open up the kit to see what I have to work with.

The blood is now gushing from the wound so I press a big piece of white gauze over it and tell him to apply pressure. Cato does so without a word. It's eerie. He doesn't seem to hear a single thing I say, but he responds like a robot.

When the bleeding's abated a bit, I examine the wound and make my diagnosis.

"Cato? Cato! Listen up!" I shake his shoulders roughly, my fingers covered in dried blood. "Listen to me. I'm going to sew up your cut. It's going to hurt, okay? Can you take it? You need _stitches._"

At the word "stitches" Cato seems to come back to life. He stares at me for a second, and then nods fast.

"Are you okay?" I feel like I'm talking to a five-year-old.

"Food," he mutters.

Oh right. He's probably lost a lot of blood and feels woozy. I dash into the dining room across the hall and grab a hunk of bread and a glass of juice and return to him, spilling a bit in the process.

He wolfs down the bread in two bites and drains the glass, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Now he seems considerably more coherent.

"Stitches, okay?" I say loudly.

"Jeez, I'm not mentally ill, Clove," he grumbles.

"You seemed to be earlier," I say tersely. I rifle through the kit and find a needle and some suture thread.

"How do you even _know_ how to sew stitches?" Cato asks, watching me thread the needle with a sort of wary look on his face.

"I used to cut myself so deep in training that Zephry taught it to me. It was extremely painful at first, but now I've developed a high threshold for pain and I can do it fine on my own."

"I feel so assured now," says Cato sarcastically, bracing himself as I bring the needle near his arm.

"You sure you don't want anything?" I ask. "Morphine to help the pain?"

"I'm fine," he says bracingly.

I grin. "You don't have to act like that in front of me."

"Like what?" he demands.

"Like all tough and masculine. This is the _Hunger Games_. Not to mention I'm not just any girl. I've sewn my own stitches before."

"Just patch me up already."

Wielding the needle expertly, I pierce his raw flesh carefully, pulling the thread through.

Cato sucks in his breath. "High threshold for pain, huh?" he asks, his voice a bit ragged.

"Are you questioning my capabilities of handling such extremes?" I ask, concentrating on the needle.

"Just talk to me. Distract me."

"Okay. What's your favorite animal?"

He laughs. "W-What?"

"Stop moving. What's your favorite animal?"

"Uh, grizzly bear. Why?"

"Hmmm," I say to myself. "Big, fierce and a killer—like you. And I don't know why, maybe because teachers back in school always made us say our favorite animal on the first day of class. It was stupid."

"So what's yours?" he asks. "Let me guess. A leopard, or something. Small, fast, and a killer as well."

"You're actually right," I say, pulling the needle through again, probing the skin.

"You're kind of predictable that way, you know."

"What? How?"

"I guess everyone views you as a tough girl. Sure, it's scary, but we've seen it all before."

"But here's where you're wrong," I whisper, looking up at him, our faces close. "Other tough girls you've seen haven't had seven years of training at it."

"Yeah, but other tough girls haven't lost to me in a duel where I used _their _weapon," he whispers back.

"Ten in training," I taunt, cutting the thread and tying it. "There, you're all done."

"Really?" he says, looking surprised.

"Oh, be quiet, pretty boy. You know it hurt. I saw you. Your other hand was gripping your knee."

He looks a bit guilty.

"See? I know you too well."

"So what'd you think of tonight. Lover Boy's whole act?" he asks, hastily changing the subject.

"It wasn't an act," I snort.

"Yeah, but it was on TV, so technically it was an act."

I sigh, the memory still irritating me. "I was mad."

"No kidding. You have nails like razors."

"Sorry."

"S'fine," he shrugs, examining his other arm, which has white scratches on them. "It'll make me look tougher in the arena. Give me more edge."

"As if you need any more."

"How do you feel about tomorrow? What are we going to do?"

"We run with Plan B," I say. "We take Lover Boy instead. I have a feeling Everdeen knows people are going to target her, the way she stole the show today."

"Still, it doesn't hurt to try to go for her too," says Cato reasonably.

I pause. "Fine. I get her, you get Lover Boy. District One and Four can get the other wimpy tributes stupid enough to stick around."

I wipe down the bloody needle with an antiseptic cloth and toss it back in the box. I throw the blood-stained gauze away. Pack up the first aid kit and tuck it in a compartment in the couch seat.

"So why on earth did you do it?" I suddenly ask, turning to face Cato, hands on my hips.

"Do what?" he asks, looking offended.

"Cut yourself like that? Hmmm? Did you think that since I had already started it for you with my clawing, so you might as well go deeper? Are you depressed? Or _that _messed up to go off and do something like that the night before the arena?"

"I don't have a problem, if that's what you think," he says, holding up his hands as if in surrender. "Just sometimes I don't think properly, when I'm in rage or shock."

"Like me," I realize slowly.

"Well aren't we a District Two matching pair?"

"Shut up."

We walk back to the room and spend the next few minutes cleaning up the broken pieces of pottery, vacuuming up the soil and dead plant and scrubbing at the carpet to get the blood stains out.

"Shouldn't the Avoxes be doing this?" Cato mutters as we're on our hands in knees holding sponges.

"You have a temper, you clean it up," I snap. "You're lucky I'm helping you."

"Why _are _you helping me?"

That catches me off guard. "I don't know. Maybe I feel sorry for you. Maybe it's just in me. I always seem to take charge in a bad situation. Like this. I'm most responsible in my family."

We scrub in silence for a while. Then,

"Why am Idoing this? Why are _you_ doing this? I ask.

"What?"

"Becoming friends. Getting to know me. Acting like you like me, or whatever. You know what's going to happen in the end."

Cato regards me seriously. "I think that the Games are the Games. Maybe I will have to kill you or you'll kill me. But I say, why not get to know what I'm defeating before it happens? Normal people would be appalled by that fact. Like reading your pig stories before bed right before you slaughter it. But I personally think it helps. You know who you're injuring. You know whose family is going to be mourning for the next several months. You know the kind of anger and hurt and sadness you're planting, and because you so very much don't want to do it, you make yourself sad and hurt from it as well. You cut others, but you cut yourself as well. You take your fair share of the pain, because you inflicted it. And to me, that's like an act of rebellion toward the Capitol itself."

I raise my eyebrows. I hadn't expected him to go in this direction.

"It's like saying publicly to the Capitol, in front of all the cameras in the arena: 'We're not afraid to become friends, maybe even lovers—like District 12. We know we'll end up murdering each other. But at least we'll have a bit of that person we had to kill inside of us.' And we know it can't possibly keep up forever. The Games. They've got to end one day. Maybe a rebellion will start. Maybe someone brave enough to confront the Capitol will come along. You never know."

I give him a thoughtful look. Cato Telum has proven to be an even deeper person that I had ever imagined. "I hadn't even thought about that," I say truthfully.

"What? You thought the Games were all about killing and winning for most people?"

I shrug, now feeling sheepish.

"I feel that way too. I'm a maniacal killing machine and I know it. But in everything I do, I try to defy the Capitol in some way discreetly. In a way that only people who really think about it will figure out."

"Do you think that's what District Twelve is doing now?" I ask. "Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen publicly displaying their love and proving to the Capitol that they're not afraid of falling for each other and having to kill one another? They're aware that the Capitol will still manipulate them into doing the unthinkable, but they still take the risk because love conquers all. It's an act of defiance by itself. It shows that we actually _are _stronger than the Capitol. It shows that we do accept the Games as a fact. But we can find ways to fight against them while _still _cooperating with their rules. We're resigning to the fact that we're imprisoned in their clutches, but we're still struggling against them in the most discreet possible way."

"I would only hope that's what District Twelve is up to," says Cato quietly. "But we don't know if Katniss Everdeen actually loves Peeta Mellark."

I give a thoughtful nod and keep scrubbing the now pink carpet.

"And you know what else?" he says after a pause, a glint in his eye.

"What?"

"We're closest to the Capitol—us, District Two. We're the last district they—or anyone—would expect to rebel. We're their oldest child, always following the rules, always showing mother our love. But if we defy them, even ever so discreetly, and they realize, then they know. They know that even the closest can turn against them."

Later that night, after I return back to my room, my arms sore from scrubbing, I look at myself in the bathroom mirror as I wash off the traces of my makeup. Maybe Cato is right. Maybe becoming friends before the killing is an act of defiance. Maybe he's confusing me purposely, or something else. But to me it makes sense. No one would ever think of something like that. Obeying the Capitol, but disobeying them.

"It's pure brilliance, Cato," I whisper into the mirror.

**This is probably the longest author note I'll ever write, but I had some things I wanted to get out. **

**1) I wanted to upload this at least yesterday, but the sign in link wasn't working and wasn't able to, so apologies. C7 is coming.**

**2) It may sound like I'm aiming at the whole Cato/Clove romance now, but I'm trying really hard not to. I'm more aiming at a very close, brother-sister relationship, as weird as that sounds. I just never believed they really were in love, I think they were just close somewhere deep down.**

**3) If Cato's talk about defying the Capitol doesn't make sense (literally) to you, let me know in a review or something. It literally came spilling out on the spot as I wrote this chapter, but I thought it was pretty deep of him, so I decided to take that turn. I know most people don't think that Cato and Clove are the whole defying type like Katniss and Peeta became, but I really think readers forget that they're actual humans inside, as brutal and cruel as they are. I think they'd like the Games to end one day, so this is that side of them revealed. I don't want to write shallow, two-dimensional characters and go on and on about the two of them being killing machines. They're actual people.**

**And lastly, I've been meaning to insert this at the end of some other chapter, but I have some interesting quiz-ish questions for you. They're not true in the real _Hunger Games _books but I incorporated them when I wrote this.**

**Question: Cato's last name, Telum, is a) Italian b) Armenian c) Latin or d) Norwegian.**

**Please don't go running off to Google translate. Actually try to guess (you can Privately Message me or tell me in a review ).**


	7. Chapter 7

7

I brush my teeth, let down my hair, and climb into bed, still thinking about Cato's words. I know it will be a long night. My thoughts keep turning to the arena. I don't wonder what will be in there, what horrible traps they have set aside for us. Rather, I wonder about how I'll treat the others. If I'll kill them with pure menace or at least try to find out who they are beforehand. I wonder about the other Careers: Marvel, Glimmer, Kellar, and Juna. Will I become close to them as well, like I have become with Cato? Will they recognize it as a careful act of rebellion? Or will their brains be too occupied by the killing?

Slowly, I fall into a restless sleep. Dreams chase me once again, consisting of the tributes' faces, every one of them, ending with Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, holding hands. Then Mariana and Maya Xavier appear in their place. Cato turns into an enormous grizzly bear, towering over me and roaring with wild rage.

I'm jolted awake at five in the morning, unable to sleep any longer. I go into the bathroom and splash water on my face. In the mirror I can see my face is pale and shiny with sweat.

I pull my hair up and tiptoe out to the dining room. In the darkness, I see the Avoxes have already set out the morning pot of coffee. I pour myself a mug and add some sugar, knowing I might as well start waking myself up since I probably won't go back to bed.

I sit in the armchair in my room, watching the orange sun rise slowly while sipping my coffee, knowing it'll be the last one I see where I'm not in mortal danger. It's even possible the sun and moon in the arena will just be a projected image, not real, just like everything else in the Capitol.

At six o' clock, Livonia knocks on my door. Her eyes look a bit tired, but are skillfully masked by makeup. "Time to go," she says.

The Games themselves will start at ten o' clock today, since the Capitol citizens all rise late. But the tributes have to get an early start, arriving at the underground chambers of the prepared arena beforehand, getting dressed in the required outfits, and going through last words of instruction from their stylist—the only person allowed to be present.

I realize that I haven't even said goodbye or even acknowledged Wilcorn, Brutus, and Enobaria. They all went to bed quickly last night. And then there was that episode with Cato and his cut.

But I know Brutus and Enobaria will be flying out to the Games Headquarters sometime around nine to start organizing our sponsors and gifts along with all the other mentors. As for Wilcorn, I don't know. The escort's job only goes so far. Possibly he will just reside at some high, prestigious place in the Capitol to watch the Games by himself.

But it doesn't matter to me. Wilcorn was never much of a help for me. He just did his job, overly enthusiastically. And Brutus and Enobaria know I know what I'm doing. I don't need much help.

Livonia gives me a thin white shift to wear and she leads me out into the hallway. We climb a set of stairs that extend all the way up to the roof of the Training Center. I've never been up here. It's completely flat and gray; the wind whips everywhere around me, giving me goosebumps. I tremble in my thin gown, my bare arms and legs shaking.

Then a gray hovercraft materializes in over the roof and a ladder drops down. I'm told to place my hands on the rungs and instantly I'm frozen in place. The ladder carries me up into the hovercraft.

Inside the enclosed space, a white-coat doctor approaches me, wielding an enormous syringe. "This is your tracking device for when you're in the arena," he explains. His lips are bright yellow, so it's hard to concentrate on what he's saying. Even Capitol doctors, as practical as some are, wear ridiculous cosmetics.

I nod numbly as he injects it into my arm, wincing as the enormous needle strikes home.

After I'm injected, Livonia and I take our seats by the windows of the hovercraft. The Capitol is disappearing quickly in the distance and soon all there is are forests of trees and mountains.

They give us a big breakfast on board, but I'm too nervous to eat. I sip some more coffee and nibble on a piece of bacon, while Livonia gulps down lots of caffeinated drink, trying to stay awake. She chatters aimlessly about the Games, her friends, the newest type of material trending in the fashion industry. I barely hear a thing. I just watch the world fly by outside my window.

As we near the arena, the windows are covered and a voice in the intercom system announces our arrival. Livonia and I stand and we grab the ladders that drop down before us. A hatch opens at our feet and we are slowly lowered through a tube that leads underground: to the catacombs of the arena.

We're escorted to a big, empty-feeling prep room. There's a table and some chairs present, along with a large bathroom.

I shower in warm water, knowing full well personal hygiene is not acknowledged in the arena. Unless you find a river of some sort. I know it'll be a while before I'll have proper bathing quarters.

Back in the room, Livonia has laid out my tribute uniform that was delivered while I was in the shower. Each tribute in the Games will wear the same thing. They typically change year to year, since the habitats of the arena are different in each Games. One year the outfits were enormous white snow suits and boots, because they were battling the Games in cold snowy weather.

This year's outfit is ordinary enough: simple fitted undergarments, dark brown pants, a forest-green cotton shirt, a belt, a hooded black jacket, and black boots. Everything reflects the colors of the forest. Perhaps this year will be very woodsy. At least I won't have to worry about frostbite and freezing to death.

Livonia ties my hair in a complicated two-sided braid, pulling it back behind my head into a ponytail. It's the most extravagant she can go with my outfit. Then, because she can't resist, she pulls a lipstick out of her pocket and dabs a bit on my lips. I roll my eyes.

"Raise your arms above your head," she instructs, "and walk around a bit."

I obey, noting that the material of the clothes is very soft, durable, and flexible. Perfect for wearing for the next eight-to-fifteen days, or however long the Games will last. The jacket feels light against me and seems to repel my body heat, which means running hard won't be a problem since I'll cool down easily in this. But it also means chilly nights. The boots are the softest leather I have ever felt, and my feet are already molding into the soles. They cling to my legs, so I'm positive they will never fall off: perfect for running.

"Everything's good," I tell Livonia.

"Oh! I almost forgot." She pulls out of her pocket what seems to be a small braided bracelet, knotted from a rough rope. "Wilcorn gave this to me a couple nights ago, said to pass it on to you the morning of the Games."

"Wilcorn gave a token for the arena?" I ask, bewildered.

"No, not Wilcorn. He said it came from someone back in District Two," says Livonia. "From . . . Mariana and Maya Xavier?"

I go numb. Slowly, I nod and take the bracelet. It's very durable but bendy. I slip it over my wrist, since there's no clasp.

The fact that tributes can bring a small token from home into the arena completely escaped my mind. I had thought about it back home, but I honestly couldn't think of anything to bring. It would have to small, easily placed in my pocket or pinned to my shirt. Probably a trinket, charm, or necklace. I have nothing of the sort that means anything to me. Besides, it would only remind me of home and I can't afford to think about it now.

But it seems Mariana and Maya have thought of me. I wonder why Mariana didn't pass on the bracelet to me when she met me in the Justice Building back in 2. Maybe she just forgot and passed it on to Wilcorn, knowing he'd be with me.

I don't know what to think of this. Mariana and Maya treating me like someone even more than just an acquaintance. Then I realize it. There will always be something between the three of us. Something more than just a simple hello in the hallways. Maya will always remember me as that girl who sacrificed herself for her, who entered the Games willingly. And Mariana. Oh, Mariana. What should I think of her as now? I saved her sister's life. She is in debt to me. I think she knows she can never repay that debt. Especially since I could die.

But I shake that thought from my head. I'm going to win. I'm going to win these Games. I'll return back home and see Mariana again. Maybe she will find some way to repay me. But she gave me a token from home in temporary compensation.

For the first time in days, the faces of my family—my mother, father, Jaynn, and Zephyr—flood into my mind. I have barely given a thought about them, and I feel a bit guilty. They've obviously seen me on television. Seen my lovely outfits for the ceremonies and interview. My training score. They must be so proud, so impressed that I've come this far. That I'm so confident in myself. They've obviously seen Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, astonished that District 12 is receiving so much attention this year. Do they know that I despise them? That I wish to kill them? Do they know anything?

I think of how in a few minutes I will be entering the mysterious arena, ready to fight for my life. I think of Cato's last words about defying the Capitol. I think of his way to do it, getting attached to the other tributes. And I think of Zephyr, who seems like someone from a lifetime ago. How he said to never, ever get attached. You don't ever befriend your prey. It's like Cato said, reading your pig bedtime stories before slaughtering it. Don't get attached and just do all the killing. It's the only way to survive Games like these. It's how soldiers get by in wars. They don't get close to their fellow fighters. They try not to feel any emotions, whether hate of the enemy or love of their general. They remain cold, emotionless beings because it's the only way most can move on as their partners get blown to bits around them. If they don't feel anything, they can take anything.

I consider actually going this route in the arena now. I don't want to associate myself with the others. I don't want to feel pain when I see them die. But I also don't want to become a broken, empty person when I win the Games. I would never be fully happy again. I want to defy the Capitol as well. Which path do I choose?

But I don't have a chance to decide. And even if I did, I would take forever. A cool female voice announces over hidden speakers to prepare for the launch.

Livonia and I stand. She takes my two hands in hers, clasping them, and smiling warmly down at me. "It's been a pleasure being your stylist, Clove," she says, smiling. For the first time, she comes across as a normal lady who has grown attached to her tribute. Maybe she does really like me. Maybe she's nice inside. Maybe she's not like the other Capitol people. "I'll be watching," she whispers. "And I'm betting on you."

I manage a smile. She leads me over to a circular plate on the ground. She blows me a kiss and then a glass cylinder-shaped contraption is closing over me. I immediately start feeling claustrophobic. But I clench my fists together and hold them to my side.

Standing straight and tall, trying not to tremble, I run through what I'm going to do in the arena. Target Katniss Everdeen. Try and aim for her. Cato will take care of Mellark.

The cylinder is rising, and I'm being pushed out of the underground chambers. I'm surrounded by darkness for a few seconds, and then I'm emerging into bright sunlight. The glass around me disappears. A light breeze ruffles my hair. I blink, almost blinded from the sudden sunlight.

Then an invisible voice booms in my ears, belonging to Claudius Templesmith, the Hunger Games announcer:

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!"


	8. Chapter 8

8

All twenty-four tributes are arranged in a large circle on their plates, about ten feet apart from each other. We're positioned on an expanse of flat grassland. Straight ahead of me is a shining lake. Okay, water source. That's good. To my right there's a huge clump of woods. Excellent place to hide for the scrawny elusive tributes. Behind me there seems to be a big drop-off. The ground slopes downward and I glimpse large fields of grain that stretch as tall as me.

In the exact center of the circle of tributes is the famous beautiful Cornucopia, an enormous golden horn with a curved end. The mouth rises at least seven feet tall. It's practically overflowing with supplies that will keep us all alive for the next few days. At the very mouth of the horn are huge packs, probably holding prized bedding, strong weapons, medicine, dry food, and other important things. Strewn on the ground around the horn are more and more supplies, their value decreasing the further they go. The item nearest to me is a pair of gloves. Probably useful for cold nights, but not good for anything else.

It's a way of manipulation. The Gamemakers use it every year. Put the more valuable items in the Cornucopia so that desperate tributes will be forced to converge, to fight for the warm jacket or spear that they so dreadfully want.

We're required to wait sixty seconds—one full minute—before the gong sounds and we can run forward. If you do so much as put one toe off your metal plate, you'll be blown into smithereens from land mines triggered underground. It's happened before, to stupid foolish tributes who didn't believe their mentor's warnings. Sometimes tributes accidentally drop something, like their token from home. I remember one girl years ago, who's token was a ball. She dropped it—kaboom. One dead tribute before the gong even sounded. The Gamemakers don't joke about their very few rules.

Sixty seconds sounds like forever, but I use my time wisely. I find Katniss in the circle of tributes. She's almost directly across from me. Great. I'll have to run across the whole circumference of the circle, while grabbing a weapon on the way, to reach her. By then, she'll have set off already, gotten a head start. She'll most likely head for the woods, since they're only to her left. So I'll have to cut her off somewhere around there. Hopefully no other tributes try to intercept me. I know Cato and the others will take them on—they're capable. But there are three of them and nineteen other tributes.

I can sense a couple of seconds left. I shake out of my reverie and brace my feet on the ground, prepared to run. I can see Cato eight tributes to my left. He glances my way, his blonde hair glinting in the sun. He gives a short nod. I understand. He's aiming at Mellark, who's only a few tributes away from him.

_Bong!_

I shoot off my plate in an instant. I'm the first off. A few other tributes have been caught by surprise. Or they're too terrified to move. I sprint forward, my braid whipping behind me, the fresh air filling my lungs. It's been ages since I've been properly outdoors, and running gives me a burst of adrenaline, a feeling of exuberance.

I spot a wide belt of knives up ahead. Reaching down, I grab them, hoisting the strap around my waist. I unsheathe the first one, brandishing it as I clear the rest of the grassland. The tributes have come to their senses and everybody's running now.

Everdeen is already dashing . . . toward me? I then realize she's decided to grab a few supplies. Easier for me, then.

She's got a large plastic tarp and loaf of bread in her hand and she's reaching for a large orange backpack. Just then a figure jumps in front of me blocking my view. It's another tribute, a boy. I can't place which district he's from, but he doesn't head for me. He heads for Katniss. His hands grab the pack just as hers do. They struggle with it for a few seconds.

I fling my knife forward. Hear it whistle through the air. It strikes the boy's back and a red stain appears. He coughs blood into Katniss's face. She looks startled, repulsed for a second. Then she wrenches the backpack from his hands and looks up.

She sees me. It's possible it's the first time she's ever properly acknowledged me She was probably too busy in the opening ceremonies waving to fans from her chariot to notice District 2's costumes. She was probably too nervous about her interview that she didn't hear a word of mine. There's no doubt she noticed me in training, though. She sees the new knife in my hand that I've pulled out, and I can tell from the look in her eyes, she knows who I am. The girl with the knives. Who's thrown them in training with such accuracy, I could pierce the center of a walnut. And she knows I'm aiming for her next.

I fling the knife forward, just as she hitches the backpack onto her back and starts sprinting for the woods. I keep running as the blade sails ahead of me. But just as it's about to strike, she pulls the pack over her head protectively. The knife buries itself in the mesh cloth, doing her no harm whatsoever.

I let out a scream of frustration and a couple of unprintable words. But the time I've gotten out my third knife, she's already reached the outskirts of the woods. Then someone else jumps in front of me. It's another tribute, dumb enough to challenge a Career.

The tribute's got a gleeful gleam in her eye. Thinking she actually has a chance. It's the girl from District 6. She made no impression of me at all these past few days. But I know she certainly can't fight. Without a thought, I plunge the knife into her chest from underneath.

She collapses immediately to the ground. I pull the small pack she was carrying out from under her and sling it onto my back. Then I search for Katniss wildly through the trees several yards away. But she's gone, disappeared. I've let her out of my clutches.

Cato better get Lover Boy then.

I yank my knife out of the District 6 girl, flicking some of the dripping blood onto her face. I've only got a dozen knives at the moment; I should save them.

I run back toward the Cornucopia. Utter mayhem has ensued. A few tributes have fled the scene but a good handful remain behind. Glimmer is battling the gangly boy from District 5. Marvel is taking on two with a huge spear in his hand. He wields it with startling skill, piercing both victims in one go.

Cato is engaged in a fight with a small brunette girl. Why isn't he finding Mellark?

I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to scream at him from across the field. Instead, I set off to find Mellark myself. As I scan the field, picking my way amongst the dead bodies and blood splattered supplies, I throw an occasional knife through the air, hitting a squabbling tribute.

Minutes later, I'm down to eight knives and I still haven't found Mellark. He better not have run off as well. I grab a few supplies and toss them into the huge horn of the Cornucopia for safekeeping. Someone grabs me from behind. It's a larger boy; I recognize him from Eight. He's got my arm in a strong grip, but I elbow him in the face with my other arm. He falls backward, blood spurting from his nose where I hit him. Grasping his one hand, I yank hard, and hear a crack. I've broken his arm, or at least dislocated something. He screams in pain. Then I plunge my knife into his neck and tug it out, drawing out more blood. Third kill of the day. Let's see how Cato's fared.

I run toward him, in the center of the battle. He's got a large sword hanging at his belt, but he's battling with a mace. He thrusts it into the head of an advancing girl just as I approach him. The girl crumples to the ground.

"Where's Mellark?" I hiss furiously, waving my knife threateningly.

"Don't worry," says Cato, his face shiny with sweat as he pulls his mace out of the dead girl's head. He's breathing heavily in the hot sun. "I've been keeping my eye on him. He's fighting the other tributes. Look now." He nods his head and I look to the right. Peeta Mellark is engaged in a fight between the girl from Three. You can't really tell who's winning, they're both so clumsy with their weapons. Lover Boy has more strength, however.

"I'm not going to take care of him yet," grins Cato. There's an angry red cut on his cheek. "If he's going to take out other tributes for us, let him be. When they're all gone and it's just the Careers left, then I can capture him. But he's already doing our work for us." Cato gives a harsh laugh, wiping his mace on the ground. "Just gather some of the supplies for now. The bloodbath's winding down."

"Already?" I ask, looking around. He's right. The remaining people are two girls including the one Peeta's fighting and two other boys. I don't know which districts they're from, though. Kellar and Juna are battling both of them together.

I know none will come at me, so I bend down and start gathering the supplies strewn around. A few are squashed, like the boxes and crates. The bags and other weapons have splotches of blood on them. I carry my pile of supplies back over to the Cornucopia and toss them into the huge pile. As I collect the provisions, I note the faces of the dead tributes on the ground. A few faces are recognizable, but some have been marred beyond identification. Probably the works of Juna's axe, or Cato's mace.

The bloodbath officially ends fifteen minutes later. Mellark finishes off the girl he was battling by finally sinking his small knife into her chest. She's gone. Juna slices the head off another girl, who's even taller than her, and she falls to the ground.

Glimmer is aiming an arrow at the last one, a boy who's trying desperately to escape from Kellar. He's badly wounded, but he's already getting away. Glimmer fires an arrow at him but misses. She's obviously not that experienced with that weapon. Marvel throws a spear in the boy's direction but he manages to roll over the drop-off that leads into the wheat fields, disappearing from view. Glimmer makes to run after him, but I call her name.

"Forget it," I say. "They're mostly all gone or dead. He's just one tribute."

She nods, retrieves her arrow and the spear, and comes over to where Cato and I are by the Cornucopia. Then I hear a shriek. It's Juna, dragging Kellar toward us. He's barely standing on his own and the front of his shirt is stained red.

We rush forward to help her. Juna collapses under Kellar's weight, dropping him on the ground. Cato rolls him over onto his back and gives a sharp intake of breath. Kellar's been badly wounded in the chest, probably the work of some mace. I grit my teeth, holding my breath as I gaze down at the marred lesion, fresh with blood.

"Get some bandages!" snaps Cato, looking up at us. Glimmer runs off toward the Cornucopia. "And some water!" Cato yells after her.

She returns with a plastic container and a white first aid kit, similar to the one I used to sew Cato's stitches with back at the Capitol.

I kneel down beside Cato, trying to calm my squeamish stomach inside. I'm now glad I didn't have much breakfast in the hovercraft. The arena can make you not want to eat for weeks. Sometimes it does.

Glimmer hands me the kit and I wrench it open and rummage through it, pulling out a large roll of white bandages and a bottle of antiseptic.

"This might sting a bit, okay?" I tell Kellar. I carefully pour a bit of the antiseptic liquid onto his wound. Kellar groans and I actually hear a hiss as it hits the blood. I have no idea if I'm actually even helping him.

Cato gently wipes up as much of the blood as possible, revealing the wound more clearly. It's deeper than I realized.

Cato sits back on his knees, taking a deep breath. His hands are already red with blood. He looks at me. "Stitches? Or anything. Can you . . . .?"

I shake my head numbly. "No, it's too big. Too deep. Who was it?" I ask Juna.

"The boy from Ten—the one who escaped. He had some sort of mace, was whacking at everything. Probably hurt himself in the process, he didn't know what he was doing." Her voice breaks. I didn't know if she had actually considered Kellar a friend.

Cato presses fresh bandages against the wound while Glimmer gives Kellar a sip of water.

"Mellark!" I say suddenly, realizing who I've forgotten to keep my eye on. I curse silently. This commotion has been the perfect opportunity for Lover Boy to escape without us noticing.

Then I spot him a couple yards away, coming toward us. He's dragging someone with him, a boy who's bound and gagged. Mellark isn't faring too well himself, with plenty of cuts and gashes.

When he reaches us, Cato snaps at him, telling him to stay back. "You didn't know him!" he says, his voice hard. "Clove—" he jerks his head toward the Cornucopia. "—stay and watch him."

I don't want to leave Kellar and all the excitement but Lover Boy is my priority. I stomp toward the Cornucopia, leading Mellark and his hostage. I tell them to sit down on the ground against the horn, making sure no supplies or weapons are in their reach.

I stand in front of them, glowering, hands on my hips, my daggers glinting menacingly at my waist. Mellark eyes them warily, but doesn't say a word. The boy next to him, who's much younger, shows fear in his eyes, but doesn't move. Somehow I find it ironic that Lover Boy just tied up a tribute, since that's what we're supposed to be doing to him.

While keeping an eye on them, I crane my head and try to see what's going on with Kellar. Juna's gripping his hand. He's groaning loudly. Cato's still bathing the wound in antiseptic and pressing cloth against the blood but it's no use. A few minutes later, a cannon sounds. Loud and clear, right from the sky. I'm startled. It's the first cannon blast of the Games. It signifies Kellar's death. Not the first death of the Games, but the first recognized one. And right after that come several others. I'm too devastated about Kellar to count them.

I stare at Kellar's body. Juna's let go of his hand. She isn't crying but her face is white. Maybe he did mean something, at least someone from home. I'm astonished. Kellar was a Career. He had training. It was by pure chance that the boy from 10 got his mace into him. The odds were completely in Kellar's favor. He was strong, fit, and could use a weapon. No one would've guessed he wouldn't make it past the first hour.

I think of his parents, his siblings, his friends back home. How they feel about watching this now on TV. How they'll feel when the Gamemakers replay his death scene at the end of the day. They must be heartbroken.

I glance back toward Lover Boy and his hostage to check on them. Mellark isn't looking in Kellar's direction. He's looking at me. His bright blue eyes are boring into mine. They have some sort of emotion in them. For a second I take it as smugness, knowingness.

"What?" I snap at him.

He shakes his head and moves his gaze.

A hovercraft appears and a claw reaches down and gathers up Kellar's bleeding body and carries him up. A few more hovercrafts come by and pick up more of the dead bodies of other tributes. Nobodies. People I didn't care to know about. But I now know that their families will be mourning for them. They'll probably turn off the television, not able to bear to see their children's bodies. Bodies that will be cleaned up, preserved, and shipped back to their respective districts in plain wooden coffins. The families probably won't watch the rest of the Games. They don't care who wins, who gets out. They just know their child won't.

I let out a shaky sigh. Mellark's looking at me in that weird way again.

_"What is with you?" _I growl loudly at him.

"Clove!" says Cato's voice. He and the others are coming toward me.

I run toward him, taking the first aid kit and bloodied bandages from him. I hand him another water jug and he washes the blood off his hands. Glimmer, Juna, and Marvel begin gathering the rest of the supplies and weapons from the dead tributes. The claws will pick up the tribute and whatever that's on their body, so we've missed a few things, like the occasional pocket knife or fire starter. Probably not much. We were too startled to remember to gather the things before the hovercrafts appeared.

Glimmer, Juna, and Marvel dump the remaining weapons in a pile in front of Cato and toss the rest of the supply sacks into the Cornucopia. Cato perches on a wooden crate beside me, gazing at Mellark and his hostage.

"So who's this?" he asks finally, when all of us are gathered.

"I'm Peeta Mellark—" begins Lover Boy.

"—we know who _you _are, Lover Boy," sneers Cato, his old smug Career demeanor back in an instant. "We want to know who _he _is," he jerks his head at the second boy.

"He's from Three," says Mellark. "He says he's got an idea."

All of us Careers pause.

"An _idea_?" repeats Glimmer, sarcasm heavy in her voice.

"For what?" scorns Marvel.

"For . . . protecting the supplies," says Mellark slowly, somewhat hesitantly. "From the other tributes."

We all stare at the boy from Three for a moment. It's the first time I've seen another tribute approach the Careers with help in how to win their Games.

"What is it?" I say finally, my voice hard.

"Take off his gag," orders Cato, bending down on one knee so that he's at eye level with the boy.

Mellark wrenches off the filthy cloth that was tied around the boy's mouth.

The boy coughs loudly for a second, bent over. We wait, trying to mask our impatience. "I can—" cough "—help you booby trap the supplies," rasps the boy. He coughs again. "The mines—" he points a finger toward the circle of metal plates "—deactivated . . . . I can reactivate them to—" cough "—trigger any movement from unsuspecting—" cough "—tributes."

He finishes, collapsing on his side, his hand on his injured arm.

"Get him some water," snaps Glimmer.

No one moves. Grudgingly, I tramp into the shaded Cornucopia and unzip the first pack I find. I pull out a plastic jug, thankfully filled. At least I don't have to head to the lake.

I unscrew the lid. Thrust it forward for the boy. He gratefully gulps down half the jug before his coughs are reduced.

"What's your name, kid?" Cato asks the boy.

"N-Nestor," mumbles the boy.

"Well, Nestor, can you tell us how exactly you'll be able to reactivate the mines?" asks Cato. His voice sounds pleasant enough, almost sunny, but I can detect the tone of threat behind it.

"Well, back home they taught us in school how mines are built. These ones are set off by the slightest pressure from feet above the ground. There's a timer set in the body of the explosive. The Gamemakers start the timer at the beginning before the gong sounds, for exactly sixty seconds. Once the sixty seconds ends, the timer goes off. This deactivates the mines making them safe for us. But if someone puts the smallest bit of pressure on the ground before the minute's up—" Nestor doesn't finish.

"Kaboom," I say.

Mellark glances at me.

"Kaboom," agrees Nestor. "The timer has now deactivated the mines permanently. They're not going to go off at all for the rest of the Games. _But_, if I dig down deep enough, I can locate the mines and reprogram them. I can program them to go off in a series of patterns. Or I can adjust the sensitivity level, so that if one goes off, all the others do as well."

"So how does this help our supplies?" asks Marvel, not getting it.

"You all can arrange the supplies in a fashion so that they surround the circle of mines. That way, if any unwary tributes come along and try to steal our food, they'll set off the mines and be blown to bits. It's foolproof. Your food is kept safe, you don't have to guard it day and night, _and _other tributes could die in the process."

He glances up at all of us, squinting in the sun, his face apprehensive. Obviously he's hesitant as to whether we'll agree on the plan. If we don't, he knows he's dead meat. He's got a lot of nerve, going right to the enemy to suggest a complex plan that only he can carry out in order to survive _and _get food. It's pretty devious of him.

"Excuse us, Nestor, while we discuss this amongst ourselves," says Cato, grinning a bit slyly. "Juna, keep an eye on him." he says to Juna, jerking his head at Nestor.

Already Cato's assumed the role as leader of the Careers. The five of us, plus Lover Boy, gather behind the Cornucopia in a huddle.

"What do you suppose?" I say, looking at the metal plates surrounding us beneath which lie possibly the most deadly weapon in the whole Games. "Think he can actually do it?"

"I wouldn't put it beneath him," says Cato. "But we'll need to keep him, let him tag along. He knows that too. He knows he's becoming a Career in this process."

"It's what he wants," says Marvel with an eye roll.

"I think you should give him a chance," says Mellark seriously.

"Be quiet, Lover Boy," I snap. "No one asked your opinion. What are you even doing here?"

I know I'm supposed to play the role of "I have no idea who Peeta Mellark is and why is he useful to us?" and not reveal that we have a plan for him.

"You'll want to keep me around, trust me," says Mellark, his blue eyes piercing mine. I give him a look, a scowl on my face. Hold it long enough. I know he's talking about Everdeen. Lover Boy knows the leverage he has. He has information about the girl on fire that got an eleven in training. But he thinks I'm a ruthless killer who doesn't give a crap about the others. I have to keep up that disguise. Make him think I'm just here for the winning. Because he doesn't know what I've got in plan for him.

"Should we let Nestor do this?" Glimmer asks Cato. "It's pretty risky. We all could die from the mines."

"So could he," I point out. "He knows about the threat. He's risking his own life to do this for us. But he's so confident in his plan, he doesn't care. Maybe it really is foolproof."

The others stare at me for a moment, astonished that I came up with such logical, yet profound reasoning.

I curse myself silently in my head. I've just let slip that I'm certainly smarter than I look. I've shown a bit of who I am to Mellark. I've shown that I have a cunning brain. He can't know that. I decide to shut up for the rest of today.

"I say we do it," says Cato. The others instantly agree.

We head back to where Juna and Nestor are.

"Well?" says Juna a bit irritably.

"We're going to activate the mines," says Cato to the two of them.

Nestor's face lights up. He's been saved.

**Sorry it's been a while since an update. Life gets in the way. I'm thinking about just finishing this story completely and uploading it all in one go when I'm done, so you all don't have to wait. What do you think?**

**Also, I hope my calling Clove "the girl with the knives" doesn't sound too clichéd since Katniss is "the girl who was on fire". I didn't mean it to turn out that way.**


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